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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977226">The Merrill Sessions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe'>blarghe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Fluff, Kittens, Meta, Mutual Pining, Therapy, fix-it-ish, giving all the characters therapy, going off in the notes, mental health, somehow worked both pet therapy and asmr into this thing let's go, very barely fenders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:28:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Merril has become something of a community figure in the Alienage. People come to her for help; to learn about the traditions of the Dalish or, sometimes, simply to talk. Recently, she has acquired a kitten.<br/>Anders has been keeping more and more to himself. He is working himself ragged in his clinic, his spirits are weighed down by the problems that plague Kirkwall, and his temper is growing ever shorter. He needs help that he isn't asking for. Merril invites him to come look in on her new kitten, and, maybe, to talk. </p><p>There is only the vaguest hint of Fenders setup, don't get too excited. When I write more of this it will be a very slow burn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anders &amp; Merrill (Dragon Age), Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris &amp; Merrill (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Anders</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anders knocks on the door to Merrill’s little place in the alienage cautiously. He raps with a stuttering hand, eliciting a rough rattle rather than a clear knock. He pulls his hand back, over thinking, and after a long, hesitant moment knocks once more, a little louder. She did say to come by. <em> Any time</em>, she had said; <em> she could use the help, actually</em>. <em> And if he ever needed to talk…  </em></p><p>He is just about to turn and leave when he hears the shuffling and clicking of locks on the other side. A heavy click for the deadbolt, then a long scratching sound followed by some clattering as she takes off the chain, and finally a softer click at the handle itself. There is a heavy, muffled scraping as the door opens, pushing across the floor of her entryway and digging another line into a wide semicircle of scuff marks in the beaten wood. </p><p>Winter is settling into Kirkwall; the days are running short and grey, darkening by late afternoon and opening with a thin layer of frost over everything from the High Town courtyards to the chains over the Gallows, and Merrill’s little old house is shifting. Old wood warps with the changing temperatures, and metal hinges lock up and sometimes simply snap apart. Cracks in the walkways through the Alienage fill with the thin dustings of snow and half-wet flakes that turn to rain as they land, then freeze overnight. The water expands, the cracks grow, and every winter things fall a little further into disrepair. Merrill’s roof will need repairs in the spring, and her front door won’t fit properly into its frame again for months. Anders can feel the thin slice of wind still cutting through from the top corner of her door, but the fire burning in Merrill’s hearth outweighs the draft. </p><p>Inside, Merrill’s house is homey and warm. Above her crackling fireplace are hung a collection of herbs and plants, he recognizes most of them; spices for cooking and elfroot for healing, plus a few others he isn’t familiar with -- something spikey that grows near her Clan’s camp on Sundermount, and a bundle of drying flowers that he is fairly sure have no beneficial properties besides their smell. But they do smell nice. Merrill’s house smells like dried flowers, burning wood, and toasted bread. A crumb-covered plate still sitting out on her little dining table beside the fire explains the last, and Merrill looks apologetic as she greets him and eagerly starts pulling at his scarf and coat. She flits about the room as she talks; taking his scarf that is now dampening with melting snowflakes to drape over her mantelpiece, directing him as to where he can leave his boots. When Merrill invites you into her house, she starts making you at home before she is finished saying hello. </p><p>“Anders!” Her smile is as warm as the rest of the place, and she brushes a few stray flakes off his shoulders after she has tossed his scarf up to dry, “what can I help you with? I’m sorry, I just ate, but if you would like some tea the kettle is still warm.” </p><p>Anders shakes his head, still standing stiffly inside her doorway with his heavy boots laced up tight and his staff in his hands. He unbuttons his coat slowly, but doesn’t hang it up on the stand next to him until Merrill presses him to it with a look. </p><p>“Come in, come in, take off that coat and stay a while.” She insists, using a phrase she’s picked up from Varric. Those two are not alike in much, but in aggressive hospitality they are an unstoppable pair. </p><p>Anders shrugs out of his coat, a too-thin jacket that doesn't really fit the growing chill in the air, nor his tall frame. He's layered it with an equally tattered but thick sweater, to make up the difference, and he rolls up his sleeves to keep Merrill from noticing their frayed edges and offering to mend them. He hangs the coat up carefully and leans his staff up against Merrill's coat stand with a sigh. His hands are cold from walking about without proper gloves, and they prickle with a welcome but sharp pain in the warmth of being indoors. He flexes his fingers and rubs his right hand over the left, squeezing the cold from his hands in a hasty massage. Merrill is still puttering and chattering around him as he unlaces and kicks off his boots, and by the time he's unlayered and able to plod further into her house in his slightly-damp, besocked feet she has offered him tea at least three more times. </p><p>"Now, what can I do for you?" Merrill asks again, watching him approvingly as he places his boots down on a little wicker mat by the door. </p><p>"I just wanted to drop by, you know, for that thing we talked about…" He answers slowly, because they talked about two things, and he only really wants to voice one of them. There’s a cat, somewhere. Merrill told him she found it with its eyes barely open, shivering between two logs in her wood pile behind the house. She said she didn't think it was sick, just hungry, but if he wanted to stop by and help her nurse it back to health he could. The offer is the first thing to get him out of Darktown in days.</p><p>There are plenty of cats around his clinic; he leaves out food and water and they take care of the rats. But those are Darktown cats, free agents of chaos and instinct. A couple will occasionally deign to be scratched behind the ears, and he keeps all of them free of fleas, but they aren't exactly companionable. Merrill has a brand new kitten who may or may not be in need of veterinary care, but will almost certainly be in need of gentle pets and cooing. </p><p>"Oh!" Merrill remembers, and the warm smile grows, "of course, you've come to play with my sweet kitty!" </p><p>Anders coughs, because she says it so brightly and she has no idea what it sounds like, and he says "that's not, uh, exactly how I would put it, but…" </p><p>“I just fed her an hour ago,” Merrill continues in her bright tone, not catching his stifled laugh or the look on his face, “she’s asleep now, but why don’t you stay and have some tea until she wakes up.” </p><p>“It’s - it’s fine, I can come by another time --” </p><p>Merrill shakes her head so sharply that Anders stops backpedaling, and even finds that one corner of his mouth has begun curling up into a smile. His hands have only just started to feel warm again, and the fire crackling in Merrill’s hearth is a far more pleasant sound than the whistling wind outside her door. </p><p>Anders finally concedes to tea, and Merrill points him at a chair angled before the fire. Sometime in all her bustling, Merrill had cleared her little dining table of her lunch dishes and set out an expectant pair of mugs and a waiting teapot. Now she hums a happy tune as she moves the kettle back over the fire and stokes the flames with another small log. She pulls another chair over; Merrill’s house isn’t made for company, and she has to rearrange her limited furniture for each new venture when hosting guests. She winds up sitting lightly on a simple wooden dining chair while Anders crosses his legs uncomfortably in her only well-cushioned seat, feeling guilty for the treatment. </p><p>“What have you been feeding it?” He asks, slouching into the seat. The fire before him is so warm that he can’t help but melt a little under it, and he sticks his legs out long so that the heat can poke at his still thawing toes. </p><p>“Milk at first, warm from a bottle like you told me.” Merrill tells him, “she’s grown a little, but I’m not sure she can eat solid things yet.” </p><p>“Try a little scrambled egg.” Anders advises, “and you have to keep her warm.” He’s already given her all the advice he can on how to care for the animal. She reported her finding of it almost two weeks ago, and he had really been meaning to check in sooner, but his reckoning of time has gotten rather unreliable, and he’s had a lot to do. Merrill nods seriously anyway. “Did you make her a place to sleep?” He asks, wondering where exactly Merrill has stowed the creature. Maybe the whole thing was just a ruse to get him in for tea. </p><p>“Oh, do you think I should?” Merrill asks with grave concern, “I’ve been letting her just curl up on my bed.” </p><p>“Merrill, what if she brought fleas or something into your bed with her?” Anders sighs, and Merril shrugs unhappily. </p><p>“Well, I did clean her up. Carefully, like you said, with a tiny little brush and warm soapy water.” She goes on explaining the care she’s been giving to this still unseen kitten over the last couple weeks as the kettle begins to whistle and she hops up to make the tea. Anders has to admit that it sounds as though she has followed his advice to the letter, and he leans forward as Merrill hands him his steaming mug. The scent of muddled tea leaves and honey melts away what’s left of the chill in his lungs as he inhales.</p><p>They have tea, and an awkward silence. Merrill sips carefully at hers and breaks the silence to tell him more about the cat -- who has been to see it, what some of the naming suggestions she’s received have been -- and he nods along, but begins to remember why it is that he never visits Merrill on his own. She is talkative and bubbly, and he is consumed with dark moods that will burst her bubble if he isn’t careful. He came to help out, he reminds himself, and tries to focus again on what she’s been telling him. But Merrill catches him staring down the flames distractedly and cuts her most recent story short. “We could check on her,” she offers, “and you can show me how to make her a bed of her own.” </p><p>Anders looks up at the suggestion and nods slowly. Merrill rises to bring their teacups back to the table. His is nearly empty while hers is still more than half full, because she has been talking and he has a habit of drinking things while they are still too hot and burning his tongue. Anders stands too, and begins to look around her small living area for potential items to repurpose into a cat bed. It is a small space, and other than crafting a box out of some extra firewood he isn’t sure what could be refurbished, but he finds himself noticing the touches of life Merrill has added to her home and feeling a low pull of discontent with his own shabby abode down in Darktown.</p><p>She has a bookshelf packed with thick volumes, and a low desk scattered with even more reading and notes. A tangled mess of wool and knitting needles are tossed onto a bench in one corner, and there’s art on her walls that looks mostly like things Isabella would pick out, all scenes of the sea and great ships. Her living room is windowless, but she’s brightened it up with a coat of fresh paint and oil lamps on the table and desk, along with the soft glow from her fireplace. Technically, it’s a one-room house, but the living space bends into a narrow hall and turns a corner through an open archway before broadening out again into the space Merrill uses for a bedroom. Anders follows her through her home cautiously, jealous and guilty; he hasn’t been to visit in ages, and even then only with Hawke, and he knows he has said unkind things about the Alienage at one time or another. <em>But now it is he who lives in a hovel,</em> says a grumbly inner voice. He has said unkind things about Merrill too, and the things she keeps in her house. </p><p>As they turn the corner into her bedroom it comes into view -- the broken mirror she dragged down from some cave on Sundermount. It’s a cursed object, so he expects it to fill the room with a dark and foreboding lull of magic, but it just sits there, looking like an ornate but otherwise ordinary broken mirror. Justice, who he assumed would leap out as though confronted with a demon, is silent in his head. </p><p>In front of the mirror, lying on its side on the floor and surrounded by various tools, is a wooden chair. It seems to match the ones she sets at her dining table, plain and sturdy, but it is missing a leg, and next to it on the floor is a stick of wood that someone has cut to length and begun sanding into the bowed shape of a chair leg. There are scattered screws on the floor, and a hammer and measuring tape and something that looks like a wide chisel. Experimental dark magic repairs have apparently been interrupted by the need to replace a chair leg, and the only residual scent in the air is of wood dust, not lyrium or blood. </p><p>Merrill notices him staring and runs a hand through her dark hair. “My mending chair broke,” she explains lightly, like it makes sense. Anders looks at her perplexed. “I would sit on it to do any sewing or fixing or washing,” she explains helpfully with a light chuckle. A mending chair, Anders gives her another slow nod, sure. “And now I’m mending my mending chair.” She chirps with a giggle, apparently delighted by the irony of a broken chair. </p><p>Anders tries not to roll his eyes too obviously, and shakes his head. He looks away from Merril’s unfinished projects to the bed, and finally lays eyes on the tiny sleepy kitten that necessitated this visit. An unexplainable warmth creeps onto his cheeks and his lips turn up into a soft smile. A tiny pink nose and the tuft of one sandy brown ear is all he can see of it, curled up with its head under paws and its body wrapped in a blanket, but Maker, it’s <em> adorable. </em>He walks over, and leans carefully over the bundle of fur and blanket without disturbing it, trying to get a better look. </p><p>“You’re sure it’s a girl?” He asks, and the kitten stirs to reveal its face. The eyes stay squinted shut as the kitten rolls over, and the mouth opens and shuts in a wide yawn. He chuckles. </p><p>“I think so,” Merrill hums uncertainly behind him, “it’s very hard to tell. Well, you can help me with that too!” </p><p>The kitten shuffles again, and this time it opens its eyes and blinks at him twice. Then it starts to dissemble itself from the bundle of blankets about it, lifting a skinny leg up and stumbling onto the bed. It walks in a tight circle, sniffing the sheets, and then turning its tiny curious nose up to Anders. He leans in a little closer, and lets it sniff at his hand. The kitten’s fur is clean but short, with darker brown ripples against a tawny beige that turns to white around its mouth and bright blue eyes. It bumps its soft face against his hand after a few cautious sniffs, then graces one of his fingers with a rough little lick. Anders lifts his hand to the kitten’s head and strokes his thumb gently behind one ear, and the cat presses back eagerly into his hand. </p><p>“She’s quite energetic when she’s awake.” Merrill notes, as the kitten continues pressing his hand for attention. “Would you like to hold her?” </p><p>Anders sits tentatively on the edge of Merrill’s bed, and scoops the creature up into his hands. He quickly checks to confirm Merrill’s sexing of it, and then holds the thing gently in his lap. He begins to befriend the kitten with gentle pets and playful wriggling of his fingers, and she drops onto her back and bats excitedly at his hand. He stays like that a while, the kitten following his fingers around in quick circles on his lap, falling to her back and kicking her feet up, nibbling at his hand when he rubs her tummy too vigorously. She is energetic, as Merrill said, and while still on the small side she appears to be perfectly healthy and free of fleas. He is smiling the whole time, and it has been so long since he has smiled like this that he feels it in his jaw. </p><p>Merrill lets him get distracted, and gets distracted herself. He barely notices her hunker down over the chair leg she’s been fashioning, and a length of time passes that is indeterminate and easy. The room is quiet but for the soft scraping sound of Merrill sanding down the piece of wood, and the occasional mews of the kitten on his lap. Even the inside of his head is quiet. It isn’t until the kitten yawns and plops herself down on the bed with her head pushed up against his thigh and her nose stuffed between her two front paws, that Anders starts to think anything again. Merrill stops sanding, and stands to help him gently wrap the sleeping creature back up in blankets. </p><p>“Still no name for her?” He asks, reluctantly leaving the swathed kitten to her spot on the bed as he follows Merrill out of the room and back towards the fire.</p><p>Merrill shakes her head, and returns to the table to grab her now cold mug of tea. She sips from it without seeming to mind. “Lots of suggestions,” she explains, “too many good ones, I can’t decide.” </p><p>Anders leans on her table, watching the low burning fire, and smirks. “You could use all of them, a big name for a tiny kitten.” He suggests, though he isn’t sure that Merrill would appreciate the names he gives the Darktown cats: Catdillious Drakon, Ser Mousehunter Specklefoot, Brother Genitivi.</p><p>“Hmm,” Merrill strokes her chin, “Messere Mittens Fluffball Nutmeg Ripples Socks MacTavish.” She says, a smile growing on her face with every new name. “More tea?” She offers, taking the kettle from where she left it to keep warm beside the fire. </p><p>Anders nods once for tea. “Who suggested Fluffball?” He asks with a shake of his head, still smirking.<br/>
<br/>
“Varric.” Merrill takes the teakettle back to the table and begins to pour, then frowns. “I forgot to take out the leaves -- it’s strong.” She warns before stirring in some honey and handing him the new steaming cup. </p><p>“Good.” Anders takes the cup, and sips before it is wise. </p><p>The dark earthy drink hits his tongue too hot to taste, and he blows away some of the steam before trying again. The scent of tea leaves floats down into his lungs and the warmth of the liquid in his second sip settles hot around his chest. The tea tastes like strong tannins and dry, bitter herbs, but it also tastes the way that Merrill’s dried flowers smell, and it's sweet with just the right amount of honey -- which is, incidentally, slightly more honey than he would have given himself. </p><p>Merrill rearranges her chairs again so that there are two at her small table, and sits. Then she tops off her cold tea with a measure of the hot stuff and more honey, and Anders decides he should sit across from her, at least until he is finished with his tea. She looks at him across the table with a sweet smile still resting on her lips. </p><p>“So, Anders,” she starts, her big eyes wide and curious across from him, “was there something else you wanted to talk about?” </p><p>He always forgets how blunt she can be, but as bad as she is at recognizing innuendo, she isn’t <em> clueless</em>. And he has been plodding around her house for an hour already with his eyes on his socks and his shoulders bent inward, and of course she can tell he has something else to say. He sighs into the tea. </p><p>“Did you mean it, the other thing you said?” </p><p><em>Anytime you need to talk, Anders</em>. <em>Everyone needs someone to just listen, sometimes.</em> That was around the same time she had found the kitten, around the same time he'd had that little -- no, that <em>big</em> -- blowout with Hawke, around the time he had snapped at her too, for something he can no longer remember. When she offered, he had barked at her and asked her why she wanted to know his business. Merrill had only frowned a slight frown and dropped into an even more reassuring tone and told him not to worry. </p><p><em> She’d never judge</em>, she said, <em> but a little compassion can sometimes go a long way.  </em></p><p><em> I </em> am <em> compassionate. </em> He had barked back, to a look of complete confusion.</p><p><em> I know</em>. She had said, and dropped it. </p><p>“Of course,” she says now, “what’s on your mind?” </p><p>Anders offers her nothing but another long sigh. He is lonely, that’s why he came by, and just being here where it's warm, with honeyed tea and soft, innocent beings to take care of, he feels a little better, and stupid. Stupid for wanting to talk about it, because it is all his own damn fault. </p><p>“Don’t you ever get tired of taking care of people, Merrill?” People, stray kittens, broken things. “Don’t you ever just want someone to take care of you?” The question is one of such thinly veiled desperation that he shouldn’t be surprised when her smile falls and her brows furrow with concern, but he is.</p><p>“My friends take care of me.” She says seriously. “You have friends too.” He isn’t so sure, but Merrill presses on, “I know you and Hawke aren’t getting along,” not getting along with Hawke is an incomplete picture; it's him and Hawke, him and Fenris, him and Aveline, him and Isabella, him and Merrill, though she seems to have forgotten it for now. “But we all miss you, you know. Where have you been lately? I haven’t seen you in the Hanged Man for ages.” </p><p>Varric would still have him to a game, has told him as much several times with no less concern in his voice than Merrill is using now, but less directness. <em> You still owe me thirty silver, Blondie, but buy me a drink and we can call it even. </em>He hasn’t found the time or the energy yet to pay off that debt, and Varric always draws a crowd of people he’d rather not get drunk with. </p><p>Anders shrugs. “Working, writing.” He answers, purposefully nondescript. He doesn’t say how wholly it has all consumed him, how his fingers feel like they are covered with ink and blood now, even when they are not. How he has been literally burning the midnight oil to write, rip up, and rewrite page after page in his unending manifesto. How frustrated he is with all of it, and how afraid he is of how dull his anger has made him. The work used to be about the plight of mages. He had a passion and a vision and Justice heard him, and gave him a voice. But now they are not so singular as they once were. </p><p>Where he wants to fight for his cause, Justice wants to do it all. The years in Kirkwall have muddled up his vision; somehow in tending to Darktown orphans and fending off Carta thugs and poor refugees who want to steal his things only because they have none of their own, the issues he’s trying to resolve with his pen have sprawled to overwhelming scope. Everything is connected and everything is wrong, and with Justice in his body he notices more of it than he did when he was just an angry mage trying to get free. Every year of freedom he spends in Kirkwall is actually another lesson in oppression and he is<em> trying </em> to find where it ends. To tackle the injustice of it all is too big a task for one person. But he isn’t just one person, and as long as he and Justice remain it <em> is </em> his task, and he is failing at it; drowning in it. </p><p>He isn’t sleeping much. Instead, ink smears on his fingers as he scrawls incoherent ravings onto coffee-stained pages. He writes about how the Circles should be, how mages should be free and educated and safe. Then a spontaneous slew of words hits him and he pours out six pages on how the Chantry could serve to be more charitable. And now Justice knows about slavery, too, thanks to Fenris and Danerius and everything he tried not to care about because Fenris hates him, anyway. But <em> Justice </em> wouldn’t hear it, and now he has a firsthand account of evil to deal with and a burning fire in him whenever the unhappy elf speaks. Then Isabella told him some stories about piracy on the high seas and Justice insisted on writing an entire chapter dedicated to the ethics of international trade laws... He is fighting with everyone, including himself, because he wanted Justice for mages and Justice insists that he is for everyone and Anders is <em> tired </em>, he is not sleeping, but Justice lives in him, he cannot simply shut it off. So he is angry with everything, all of the time, and just a hair away from snapping at everyone he knows no matter how well meaning, and he goes on. So tired, and so alone. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Merrill.” He says after a long, tense moment. </p><p>“For what?”</p><p>For a few things, really, and he knows she knows it too. He’s been rude to just about everyone, and not there at all for some. "For how I spoke to you before. It was uncalled for, you were only trying to be kind." Merrill is always only trying to be kind. He may disagree with her on a few matters, but he cannot fault her for that. Besides, he knows that when he snaps at her it is usually unfair, because it is usually only him that does it, and sometimes Justice even tells him so. </p><p>"I know," Merrill says, "it's alright. I could tell you were just in a foul mood." She forgives him with a wave of her hand, but the look of concern doesn't leave her face. </p><p>"I'm always in a foul mood." He mutters. He doesn't bother to explain how often he tries, and fails, not to be. It is so, so hard to drag himself up, and he has nearly stopped trying. </p><p>"When...when you said those cruel things to Hawke, what were you thinking?" Merrill asks, and even though she asks it in her usual kind way, his blood begins to heat up. </p><p>"You sound like the other elf," he snaps, blood a little hotter just at the thought of him, "I don't need to hear a lecture about how unpleasant I am." A lecture about how unpleasant he is runs through his head all on its own, regularly. He doesn't need the help. </p><p>"I am not judging you Anders." Merrill corrects him softly, though she's leaned away. "I mean, what are the thoughts in your head when you say things like that; why are you mean, if you don't want to be?" </p><p>He frowns, not sure where to start. "The thoughts in my head are just the same ones I say aloud." He shrugs, "I know they're not always fair, but everything feels…" heavy, unfair, broken. "Hopeless." He says, and stares deep into his tea.</p><p>Merrill nods slowly. "You have moods about your moods." She notes with the touch of a smile; Anders doesn't return it. </p><p>"I wouldn't expect you to understand." He sighs, ready to be done with this. It will be dark soon, and he should get back to work. </p><p>"But I do." Merrill insists, though he doesn't believe her. And that's part of his problem: there really is <em> no one </em> who could. But she must be able to tell that he is doubting her, because she dives right in.</p><p>"When I first left my clan, I felt so alone." She begins, but already Anders knows that whatever she says, it isn't the same. "And even before that, with the <em> eluvian </em>," she sighs, and something sad but distant passes over her eyes, "but now I have friends, and Kirkwall doesn't seem so bad, even if the walls are still a bit frightening, and the roads full of potholes, and the alleys smell, and…" She talks herself into a smile, almost laughing at the dereliction of the city. Another thing she's picked up from Varric. "It's alright to ask for help, you know." She says suddenly, her voice sticky sweet with its care. </p><p>Anders realises he is frowning; grimacing, with a tight jaw and eyes still somewhere in his tea. Maybe her remark isn't so sudden, after all. </p><p>"Fine, <em> help me </em> disrupt the messages coming through the Templar hall, help me petition the guard to investigate the rumours of missing and abused mages, or better yet, help me investigate them yourself! You’re more than capable, I’ve seen you in a fight. Why don’t you get out there and do something?” He snaps, and even though she should snap back at him, Merrill doesn’t. Instead she leans back in her chair and raises an eyebrow at him, and for a second under her gaze he feels almost embarrassed. </p><p>“I am doing something.<em> Here.</em>” She points out, and Anders huffs into his tea. “There are people here who need my help, and who don’t need that attention. Look around you, Anders, there are apostates right here.” She reminds him, and somewhere in the back of his mind Justice is stirring, aggravated but unclear. Just being in the Alienage at all always sets Justice on edge. </p><p>“Yet you’ll risk <em> blood magic </em> for some ancient magic mirror?” He counters, and Merrill crosses her arms. </p><p>“The <em> eluvian </em> is an artifact of my People, a rare connection to all that we’ve lost. It is my duty to care for that.” </p><p>“There are people here <em> now,</em> what about them?” He bites back, eyes flicking up from his tea to challenge hers, bright and full of anger. They’ve had this argument before. Anders has a temper, and it always points him in a certain direction. <em> Why aren’t you doing more? </em> He demands of his friends; of himself. Merrill is always trying to tell him he is too angry, but why aren’t they all angry? </p><p>“You could at least convince Hawke to --” </p><p>Merrill stops him with another look; crossed arms and a still-raised eyebrow, ice in her gaze. She is small and bubbly and good natured and kind, but right now she looks at him like an unimpressed teacher. </p><p>“Hawke has been through enough.” She says, and Anders slumps a little because it’s true. He is being unfair again. </p><p>“I know that.” He mumbles. Reckless idiot though she may be, Hawke is still one of the only people in this blighted city he cares for, one of the only people he trusts. And he’s been picking fights with her when he should have been there for her and snapping jealously at her when he has no right to, and maybe she <em> is </em> petty and abrasive, but after the year she’s had she has more than enough of an excuse. What’s his?</p><p>Merrill unfolds her arms and leans in again, something new in her eyes. Something adjacent to concern; understanding? He looks back at his tea. </p><p>“Anders, it is alright to rest, to take time to care for <em> yourself.</em>” She says, and her eyes stray down to his frayed shirtsleeve, which he has unrolled and begun to fidget with in his tense restlessness. “You need sleep, and warmer clothes, and someone to talk to.” Her tone has softened entirely, and he doesn’t deserve it, and she hasn’t answered him. His jaw tightens. </p><p>“Maybe if I wasn’t the only one who <em> cared --”  </em></p><p>“-- You <em> aren’t </em>.” </p><p>The promise stuns him back into silence. </p><p>“You aren’t, Anders. If you would just leave Darktown every now and then to come visit, to play cards at the Hanged Man, to talk to us…” </p><p>Anders slides his chair back from the table and stands, leaving the tea behind. Her invitation has only served to remind him that he’s been here doing nothing for hours, and he needs to get back to work. </p><p>“I have too much to do,” he says hastily, “thank you for offering, but the clinic --” </p><p>“You’re just one person.” </p><p>“But I’m not.” He snaps again, and so does Justice, colouring his vision for a moment so that her outline glows blue with the aura of her own latent magic, and the world around them looks misty and only half real. He gives his head a shake, pushing Justice back. </p><p>“You’re still a person.” Merrill says, standing too. </p><p>Anders’ eyes flash, and for a moment he sees Merrill from overhead, outlined in the magic that hums gently around her home. He looks at himself, too, electric blue and vibrating, before floating back into himself and watching out passively from behind his own eyes. </p><p>Merrill is not angry. She looks at Anders and she thinks about helping him; mending his sleeves and knitting extra blankets for his clinic. She has a lot of thoughts, actually, spiraling around inside of her where Anders couldn’t see, and Justice can’t make sense of. There are developing lesson plans running through her head in the cracks between her immediate thoughts, concern for Anders ordered near the front, but behind it she worries about two children with a mother who shouts too much, a teenager who just came into her magic; she worries about whether Hawke is eating enough and is trying not to forget to write a list before she heads to the market so that she can put together some soup. She’s got information on Fenris, tales of pain and injustice that were told to her in confidence, that Justice and Anders are not supposed to hear, but Justice sees them anyway, and Anders glowers somewhere deep under it all. </p><p>She watches as Anders’ eyes glow blue and bright and her posture stiffens, and some of the thoughts that were swirling about come into focus and then wall themselves away as the magic around her glows a little brighter. </p><p>Merrill doesn’t trust him. She looks at him with that stern, teacherly look and takes a deep breath. </p><p>“Hello, Justice.” She speaks to him in her tongue, where Justice doesn’t mean quite the same thing that it does to Anders, and while Anders is still glowering somewhere behind his eyes, Justice smiles. </p><p>It was Anders’ frustration that brought him out, but now that he is here there is something else he wants to say. </p><p>“You teach them.” He notes, addressing Merrill’s thoughts and memories with curiosity. “Why?” </p><p>“I told you, you aren’t the only one who cares.” Merrill says calmly, and she peers into the blue fire of his eyes, looking for Anders. “You need to let him be.” She says firmly, still sharp-tongued. He hears her hear her own voice and sees her remember being on the other side of a Keeper’s scolding. <em> The tone is for your own good. </em> He frowns.</p><p>“A mother should not say such things.” For him, the memory of what Marethari has said to her in the past is as real a thing as what Merrill is telling him now, and he gets lost in where his responses should go; to what she says, or to what she thinks. Merrill shakes her head. </p><p><em> She wasn’t my mother. </em> “I am talking about Anders. Let him be. Let him out, please.” </p><p>People are complicated, jumbled up messes of thoughts and feelings; things that have happened to them and memories of things that have happened to them that didn’t, quite. Anders sees the world in a way that is simple; spirits and demons, right and wrong. Or he tries to. Justice doesn’t question why this is, he simply adapts, because Anders is part of what he is, and right and wrong are what he is made to determine, and where necessary, correct. The Chantry gives all the spirits specific names, and says that demons are what correspond to sin. Anders is a sinner, and he worries that Justice will become a demon within him, and Justice adapts. </p><p>Merrill sees something else. She looks at him and thinks of him with different teachings. Merrill knows that spirits are not the same thing as demons, but that they are not entirely different things, either. She doesn’t see a dichotomy; Justice or Vengeance, spirit or demon, right or wrong. She sees desperation and anger and frustration and helplessness and dismay, and she wants to help teach it balance. Somewhere deep in the angry black of his black-and-white thinking, Anders resists the chance to adapt.</p><p>“It is hard to see the good in the world, I know.” She says, and Justice sees every unjust thing she has ever born witness to, and his eyes glow brighter. “But you have to let him, let yourself. How can we do any good if all we see is wrongness?” </p><p>Justice is only a spirit, and he fits into the mold of what he’s been given. Anders has boxed him in with Chantry teachings that despite his efforts, he was never able to fully unlearn. When he is on the outside, confronted with differing views of the world, he tries to fit himself into it, even where he can’t. <em>Like a cat,</em> says the part of him that is inextricably bound with Anders. <em>Give him a box, and he fills it. </em></p><p>Merrill sees the world in a way that is uncertain. She doesn’t know her own worth, but she knows the value of kindness and love, and she tries to extend both out around her as far as she can. There is justice in her way, in educating the lost and comforting the hopeless. </p><p>“You should all be angry.” Justice says, “you should all be fighting.” There is justice in that too, and if Anders has shown him anything, it’s that sometimes violence is needed to enact change. </p><p>Merrill frowns. “Maybe.” She sighs, and she still wants to mend Anders’ sleeves and to talk to him about flowers and kittens and the bright things he is neglecting out on the surface of the world. “But you can’t let it consume you… Anders, if you can hear me, try to come back out.”</p><p>She is still looking for two of them, and because she is looking for two of them they become a little more like that, and Anders is a little more separate than he was a moment ago, and he is scowling, because he does not want to talk about the good, and it has nothing to do with Justice. He twists things as much as any spirit could, the injustices of the world hitting up against his loneliness, his pain. </p><p>“Anders can hear you.” Justice says. </p><p>“Then I’d like to speak to him, please.” Merrill doesn’t trust him, but she is right; Anders needs love and sunshine and kittens, even if neither of them knows how to admit it. He recedes. </p><p>Anders staggers forward and leans with both hands on the back of Merrill’s wooden dining chair, panting. </p><p>“I - I’m --” He starts to stammer out an apology, Justice should not be able to take him over so easily. Another reason to keep his temper as far away from the people he cares about as he can. </p><p>“Are you alright, Anders?” Merrill rushes up to him, guiding him into the chair with a gentle push and pressing his still-warm, half finished mug of tea into his hands. </p><p>“No.” He admits. “But I should go. I’m sorry.” He places the mug back onto the table without taking a sip, but Merrill doesn’t let him get up. A firm hand presses into his shoulder and her eyes look at him wide and worried and <em> hopeful </em>. </p><p>She gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Breathe.” </p><p>He does. Too fast at first, but she does it with him until he’s slowed down to copy her; in through the nose slowly until every inch of his chest is puffed up full, then she holds onto it for a moment, locking her eyes with his as her hand remains pressed firmly into his shoulder, and lets it all out through a slow stream of air through her mouth. Again, in for as long as he can, holding it, and out. Again. Merrill releases her grip on his shoulder, steps back, and Anders breathes once more on his own. Then he takes a sip of the tea, after all.</p><p>He stands up again, and Merrill doesn’t stop him this time. </p><p>“I --” Anders still doesn’t know what to say. "I have to go."</p><p>He can't read the look on Merrill's face, and for a second he misses the omniscience of being taken over by Justice. It is not something he desires often; Justice can burn right out of him and leave him to piece together fragments of memory in the aftermath, but not always. Sometimes, Anders is there too, hearing what Justice hears, <em> seeing </em> what Justice sees. And as he saw Merrill, he felt connected -- not just to her, but to the people and things she cares about. Including himself. He has been spending so much time angrily trying to rewrite the world, that he has almost forgotten how to be in it. </p><p>“I’m going to help you with your Templar messages.” Merrill says as she collects his scarf from the mantlepiece. “If it will help keep them away from the people here, then I want to help.” </p><p>“You - you don’t --” </p><p>“And I think, afterwards, you should come over again for tea. And you can help me make the kitten someplace to sleep.” </p><p>“Merrill…” </p><p>“Don’t say no. We don’t even have to talk about anything, alright? But if you ever need to again, please, don’t be a stranger.” She smiles, tossing out another of Varric’s friendly little expressions as though he hadn’t just flared up into an abomination in her living room. </p><p>He sighs, then nods. Merrill’s smile flashes bright and eager. “Good.” She affirms, “take care, Anders.” </p><p>Anders shrugs back into his coat by the door, and bends over to stuff his feet back into his tough old boots. The scarf Merrill handed back to him is warm as he wraps it around his neck and ears, and the jittery unrest that is still shaking in his fingers calms a little more as he wraps his hand around the handle of his staff, and uses it to steady his steps to the door. </p><p>“Thank you, Merrill.” He says reluctantly over his shoulder before he pulls the door open. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Fenris’ fist is inches away from the door, raised up and ready for a firm, polite knock, when it opens. He stops, his fist midair, and looks up into the face of the tall blond mage who is on his way out. His heart, involuntarily, leaps into his throat.</p><p>Anders’ eyes are downcast and the stubble on his chin is thick and patchy from neglect. His coat is too thin and too short and his fingers are bare. He starts as he comes face to face with Fenris, staggering a little backward and then mumbling something as he shoulders past him. As their densely bundled shoulders touch, Fenris feels only the slightest vibration of magic through his lyrium lined skin, but it’s enough to send a shiver down the entire length of his spine. Then Anders is gone, shuffled off down the road and fading into the fog of wet-falling snow. Fenris looks after him for a moment with a question on his lips before his attention is quickly pulled back into the house, where Merrill is shouting out a surprised greeting because she has lost track of time, again. </p><p>“Oh! Fenris! I nearly forgot you were coming, here, let me take your coat…” </p><p>She begins her routine around him, taking his wet things to dry by the fire and offering him a chair when he bends to unlace his tall boots. They’re new, and still stiff, and he grimaces as he pulls at the laces and loosens the hard leather around his ankles. Isabella insisted he buy something sturdy for the winter on threat that otherwise she would buy him some herself, and they would be thigh high and high-heeled and flashy. </p><p>He refuses the chair and hops out of his boots ungracefully instead. Merrill giggles, and he returns her amusement with a scowl that he doesn’t really mean. </p><p>“What was the mage doing here?” He asks when he has finally found an upright posture again, barefoot on her cool wood floor. </p><p>“Oh, nothing really.” Merrill replies with a shrug he doesn’t believe. “He came to check on the kitten.” </p><p>"He can't have Messere Mittens." Fenris cautions seriously; the cat is not going to Darktown.</p><p>“He just needed someone to talk to.” Merrill says lightly, but Fenris has been coming over to Merrill’s house for someone to talk to for a while now, and he knows that it isn’t something that most people do lightly. </p><p>“Why?” He asks, hiding his interest with a disapproving bitterness in his tone. </p><p>“Oh you know,” Merrill takes Fenris’ gloves from where he stuffed them up a coat sleeve and brings them over to dry by the fire. “He’s just a bit sad.” </p><p>He doesn’t know why it does, and he stamps down the feeling almost as quickly as it rises, but something about the way she says that sends another shiver through him, one that snakes its way around his heart and trips it into a quick stutter. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fenris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hello I am hellbent on describing in minute detail exactly how everyone in the DA2 crew becomes friends. Anyway in this one Fenris has actually had a fair bit of therapy, and he has some stuff to talk about with Merrill. It may or may not clash with the given timeline, idk, but for story purposes Danarius was taken care of before Leandra's murder. </p><p>Blood/injury and sex mentions but nothing graphic, general brooding.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It started with Orana. </p><p>Hawke took Orana on as a servant after freeing her from Hadriana, and it didn’t take her long to settle into a routine at the estate, though she never did seem to sit down. Orana never warmed up to him, either, always staring. But Hadriana led him to Danarius, and that led them both to freedom. Which gave Orana even more reason to stare.</p><p>He doesn’t remember much about killing Danerius. He remembers a lot of blood, and he remembers shaking with agitation, shouting at Hawke, even after it was over. Anders had called it shock, leaning over him with that ever-present frown of his, and until he said <em> if I dont heal this now, you'll lose the arm </em>, Fenris had tried to push him away. The magic, he remembers, felt cool and warm, all at once. It didn’t hurt, just swam through his veins and smoothed his skin back together, until he was aware of his arm again, and then aware of it tingling like a limb asleep. He still feels a tight ache in it, some mornings. </p><p>After, he woke up in Hawke's guest room, and Orana was there, watching. </p><p>"You’re awake! I -- thank you." She squeaked at him nervously, and before he could reply she ran off, and then everyone was in the room. </p><p>Isabella walked him home that day, but he found himself over at Hawke's more and more often in the following weeks. Before Leandra was murdered, Hawke used to have dinners; scandalizing her mother with her ragtag group of friends, and keeping a card game going until the late hours. </p><p>Living with Hawke seemed to be something that was imposed on other people, and Leandra regularly complained that her encouragement of rowdiness and swearing into the night was going on too late and too loud, while Orana seemed always to disappear with a polite excuse when her work was done, no matter how many times Hawke invited her to join the fray. Leandra had seemed to take a shine to Fenris. He always strove to supply the balance of calm to Hawke's bawdy, and was never anything but painstakingly polite to her mother. But he didn't talk to Orana, and she sort of skirted around him, always treating him with heightened caution and squeaky politeness. He had supposed that it couldn’t be helped. She, more than anyone, knew exactly who and what he was. </p><p>But one night, long after the dessert dishes were cleared away, he walked by Hawke's study and heard giggling. When he looked in, he found Merrill and Orana, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpeted floor, weaving something out of string between them and laughing away. </p><p>Orana squeaked at him again when he entered, and stood up, so he sat down cross-legged on the floor, and asked Merrill to teach him the game. That was how it started. </p><p>"What were you laughing about?" </p><p>"Oh! Um, I was just telling Merrill this story...th-this story about one of Danarius' parties, back in Tevinter..." </p><p>He grunted. "I don’t recall them ever being funny." </p><p>Orana looked at him with wide, guilty eyes. </p><p>"Well you know, Fenris," Merrill came to the poor elf's rescue, "sometimes even when things are horrible, you just have to laugh." </p><p>"You spend too much time with Hawke." </p><p>But then he had laughed. Not at anything from the past, but at his own clumsy fingers as he attempted to learn Merrill's game, and at the retelling of one of Varric's jokes, and at Orana's nervous impression of Anders. After that, she stopped standing to attention and squeaking at him whenever he entered a room, and he began walking with her to the Alienage, to talk to Merrill. </p><p>At first, he didn’t want any part of the supposedly cathartic conversations that Merrill had to offer. He just knew that Orana would be safer walking home from the alienage at night if she was accompanied by a strong elf with a big sword. But on their walks, Orana would sing the praises of Merrill's skill at listening, her kind words, her helpful advice. And every time he showed up at her door, Merrill invited him in for tea. </p><p>"What has she told you?" He asked Merrill once, while out on some trek to the coast with Hawke. The question made him itch just to ask it, his heart sinking like a cold stone in his chest. </p><p>"A lot of things...awful things." Merrill answered, sympathetic and suitably private. "Nothing about you." She added with a touch of reassurance. "I understand why you wouldn't," she went on, "but if you want, you are always welcome to come over and talk." </p><p>Her saying so was nothing special by then; Merrill's house was becoming more popular than the Hanged Man, it seemed. She was gaining a reputation for helpfulness that rivalled Hawke’s, albeit her solutions tended to be much less violent, and also free. He didn't think he had ever met anyone quite so irresponsibly kind as Merrill. </p><p>Then once in a while, he began to actually stay with Orana through her visits, and Merrill told them both about the Dalish lore that neither of them had ever been given a chance to know. Her stories were lovely, and sometimes harsh, and always so far from the kind of life he had known that it practically made him ache. Orana played music sometimes, and struggled to teach Merrill to play in turn. He found that he liked to listen, even as Merrill struggled through her scales, but still, never to talk. </p><p>Then, Isabella started sleeping with Hawke. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>"I need to talk to you." </p><p>The first time he said it, he said it before even taking off his coat, rushing through the words because otherwise he would lose his nerve and not say them at all. </p><p>Merrill nodded, took his coat and poured him some tea, and then he did something that he had never done before: he opened his mouth, and he <em> rambled </em>.</p><p>He had been sleeping with Bella, on and off, for some time in the year before. But they had been <em> off </em> for a while; ended with a simple conversation and a complete lack of judgement. It ended not due to any fault on anyone's part, but because both had simply felt that the affair had more or less run its course. Everything was amicable, everything was fine. Isabella still came over sometimes, to drink his wine and pester him about redecorating, and they'd talk. Isabella liked to gossip, and she liked to tell tall tales almost as much as Varric did. She would rave openly about her newest sexual exploits with humour and gusto, and there was something intimate and comfortable in that. It was friendship, and it was enough. Varric called him broody, and Bella liked to tease, but really he felt the happiest he had ever been. </p><p>And then Isabella had gotten drunk and confessed something real to him, and despite every ounce of his better judgment, it sent him into a dizzying tailspin of that angst-ridden <em> brooding </em> he'd built himself such a reputation for. </p><p>"I think..." Isabella had been three glasses in when she stumbled through the sentence, and as many sheets to the wind, "I think I'm <em> falling </em>." </p><p>"You're sitting on the floor, Bells." He had replied, the words sailing past him. </p><p>"No no no," she’d waved her hands about and swayed from side to side. "Not <em> falling </em> falling," explained with a hand gesture of two fingers walking and stumbling onto her lap, " <em> in love </em>." </p><p>She had whispered it, comically loud, like another piece of her sordid gossip, and soon after that she had passed out on his floor. Then he'd scooped her up, deposited her in his bed, and sat himself down in a chair to sleep in his great empty living room. And sitting there watching shadows flicker across his plain walls, he had just started... brooding. He had tried not to, really tried, but the thoughts had nowhere else to go, and they spun round and round his head for days until, eventually, he gave up and went to see Merrill. </p><p>He told Merrill about all of it in one long breath. Flexing his hands into fists and pacing across her floor. Ending with enough self admonishment to fill a Chantry sermon. </p><p>"It isn't fair, right? I don’t even want to sleep with her, never mind more. I mean we stopped all that <em> months </em> before anything even happened with Hawke. And it's not as if I didn't <em> know </em>. I should just be happy for her, right? For both of them." </p><p>Merrill watched him from the table, quietly listening. "And how <em> do </em> you feel?" She asked, tilting her head to one side to watch him pace another line across her tiny living room. </p><p>"I don’t know. Angry. Angry and confused and I... I don’t understand it. I don't understand <em> why </em>." </p><p>"Why she's fallen for Hawke, or why you're angry?" </p><p>"I don't know! Both! But I shouldn't be -- I <em> can't </em> be jealous. They're my friends." His best friends. His first friends, possibly ever. </p><p>Merrill then asked him a series of follow-up questions:</p><p>"Are you in love with Isabella?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"With Hawke?"  </p><p>"Definitely not." Hawke was fantastic, and the absolute last person he'd ever want to get involved with. </p><p>"Do you just want to sleep with her, then?" </p><p>"No!" </p><p>"Alright, only checking. Most people seem to." </p><p>"Just tell me that I'm being unreasonable," he demanded, "and then tell me how to stop." </p><p>Merrill hummed, looking thoughtful.</p><p>"What?" He snapped, embarrassment and frustration breaking into his tone. </p><p>"It’s just that you're usually very reasonable." </p><p>He scowled at her, but she seemed not to notice, and finished the thought. </p><p>"So there must be something more to it. Something reasonable, or something that at least seems like it is."  She went on like she was just puzzling it out herself, a little mystified. </p><p>Doubt and shame began creeping back up over him.</p><p>"Do you see them less now?" Merrill asked suddenly, "I haven't really noticed, myself. But it’s been so busy around here, I suppose I might not. She still has her dinners though, Hawke, doesn't she? You know, I haven't seen Anders at one for some time now. I hope he's alright... Oh dear, sorry, I'm getting away from things aren't I -- now, where was I? Oh, yes. Isabella and Hawke. You <em> should </em> be glad they're happy. Are they in love? That is such wonderful news! Well. Have you noticed that you see less of them? Sometimes feeling left behind makes a person feel a bit angry. I'm sure that Hawke and Bella would never do that on purpose, though."</p><p>Fenris stared at her for a long moment, then slowly shook his head in answer. "Not less. It is not that. It's - it's like I said, I knew they were -- I mean she practically <em> lives </em> over there now  -- but suddenly I'm... I'm --" he snapped his mouth shut, barring back the thought that had jumped into it with his teeth. The same thought that had been prodding at his sleep all week, the very reason he'd had to go and spill his heart out to <em> Merrill, </em> of all people. </p><p>"Go on, what is it? I can’t help you fix the feeling if I'm not allowed to know what it is." </p><p>"Worthless." He said. "I suddenly feel worthless." </p><p>Merrill frowned at him under a long sip of her tea.</p><p>"I see." She said. "Because she found that with Hawke, but not with you. So you're angry." He waited for the part where she told him he was being unreasonable, and how to stop. Instead, she went on puzzling things out just a little bit further. "That makes sense, it's still a little bit like being left behind. You feel like Hawke must have something you don't, or... Fenris,"  she paused, and her tone became very serious, "are you saying you feel like you don't have <em> anything </em> to offer at all?" </p><p>"I..." </p><p>"Oh. Oh dear, well, yes. I can help you with that. First of all, is it true?" </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"Is it true that you have nothing to offer? I don’t think it is of course, but it doesn’t matter what I think. What do <em> you </em> think makes you worthy?" </p><p>“Are you seriously asking me to prove my worth after -- after I just told you --" </p><p>"Well you wouldn't be angry about it if you really thought it was true. So why isn't it true? Go on," she smiled invitingly, "tell me." </p><p>"This is ridiculous." </p><p>"Isn't that why you're here?" </p><p>It took him a long time to answer. Too long. And it felt the wrong thing, to look inward for things to brag about, when all he needed to do was <em> stop </em> being selfish. But Merrill kept looking at him, expectant, and so he offered up the one defining positive trait he had. </p><p>"I... I'm strong." </p><p>"And?" </p><p>"And... principled." </p><p>"Oh yes, that's good. You are, very. Go on, then." </p><p>"And I... I'd always be loyal.” He stopped there, frowning; hating this. It didn’t matter that he would, he still needed to be alone, for everyone’s sake. He hadn’t even been ready for casual sex. </p><p>“Merrill this is ridiculous. I don't want to be <em> with </em> either of them, or anyone, for that matter!" </p><p>"Well that's not important, you're always with yourself." She chirped, without even a hint of self awareness over the glaring brightness of such a remark. "Anyway, you said to tell you it wasn’t reasonable. So, there you have it." </p><p>She beamed up at him, and Fenris finally sat down. His tea had gotten cold and he drained the mug in one long sip.  </p><p>“Is it reasonable to think this has happened because you're worthless?” Merrill pressed him when he finished, leaning forward to clasp her hands over the table between them.</p><p>“I... no.”</p><p>“Why not?” She asked, still smiling. </p><p>“Merrill.” An agitated protest. </p><p>“Go on, say it.”</p><p>He sighed, and spun the empty mug around unhappily in his hands. “Because I'm not."</p><p>“Not what?”</p><p>“<em> Merrill </em>.” </p><p>“You <em> can </em> say it, can’t you?”</p><p>Another deep sigh. “I'm not worthless.” </p><p>“No, of course you aren’t.” She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied expression. “So just talk to her.”</p><p>“Isabella?”</p><p>“Yes, Isabella. Hawke too, if you'd like.”</p><p>“And say what?”</p><p>“It sounds to me like you’re worried that you'll mean less to your friends now, but I'm sure that isn’t true. If you tell Isabella you're worried about it, I'm sure she'd want to help.”</p><p>Talk to Isabella about it. <em> Talk </em> about it. Defeated, he looked up at Merrill. </p><p>“How do I… how do I ask for that?”</p><p>“The same way you asked me.” She shrugged, like it was a simple thing. </p><p>“You do this for people like a hobby. And I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to burden her, burden anyone, with all the pent up, <em> unfair </em> anger that liked to fill his head at night. “I don’t want her to feel sorry for me.” </p><p>“Fenris, it's nearly midnight. I did this for you because you're my friend.” Merrill gave her head a light shake, and kept her smile pointed right at him. </p><p>“Sorry.” He muttered in response, and then it was her turn to sigh at him in protest.  </p><p>“<em> Fenris </em>.” </p><p>“Thank you.” He corrected himself, stuttering a little over the words. </p><p>Then Merrill reached across the table and ever so lightly patted his arm, and he tried very very hard not to flinch. </p><p>“I'm sure Isabella or Hawke would help you too, if you asked them.”</p><p>He had to consider the advice for a long moment. Friendship with Isabella and Hawke had been a simple thing to gain; both liked to gamble and drink and tell loud stories, and all he really had to do was listen. They made him laugh, and he enjoyed how their company was easy. Talking to them...talking to them would not be easy. Eventually, he nodded silently, and then tried to leave on apologies for the lateness of his visit that Merrill again refused to hear. </p><p>But before he left, she asked him one more question: </p><p>"Why do you think you felt that way, Fenris? Right away that it was you, and you weren't worth anything?" </p><p>"Because... because that's what I am." He bit his lip, almost not saying it, but then corrected, "what a slave is." Not what he was. But.</p><p><em> Able to be discarded </em> written all over his face, branded into him. Something -- some <em> thing -- </em>that had been used and gone uncared for. His every living right something he'd had to kill to get back. </p><p>"I have always been disposable." Catching Merrill frowning, he quickly corrected himself again, "until now." </p><p>Her frown didn’t let up. </p><p>"No, Fenris." She sighed again. "You never were. Talk to Isabella, please. But also, if you'd like, we could talk about the rest of that sometime too." </p><p>"Yes." He said, cheeks reddening in the aftermath of so much personal feeling, but a familiar kind of hot; empowered and free. It felt like how killing Danareus should have. "That might be a good idea." </p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>He has been coming over to Merrill's ever since. Once a week or so; talking, working through things, and very slowly allowing her to influence his thinking with her relentless positivity. He knows that he will never be like Merrill, trusting and openhearted and almost insufferably <em> warm </em> , but he is different. Friendlier, less reactionary, and taking better care of himself. He asked Isabella to go shopping with him, and finally decorated the main rooms of his mansion in comfortable furniture and art that isn’t too loud. Isabella had beamed at him when he admitted he'd started talking to Merrill. <em> I'm so proud of you! </em> She’d exclaimed with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss to his cheek. Strange, stupidly sentimental; nice. </p><p>Sometimes the conversations he has with Merrill are hard, digging into thoughts that he knows he shouldn’t have, but that have embedded themselves so far into his mind that he isn’t always sure who he will be without them. But they don’t always talk about him. Sometimes he comes over just for the company, to help out around her house and to be kind. A year ago, he would never have risked showing a blood mage kindness, but now Merrill is a friend, and he is getting quite good at having friends. </p><p>The air inside Merrill’s house is buzzing. As he approaches her dining table, the hair on his arms stands up. Merrill’s house always prickles a little with magic, but he’s mostly gotten used to it. Her magic doesn’t feel sharp or irritable, like some mages. She doesn’t use warding sigils around her house, and usually makes a point of cleansing the place a little before he comes over. But the magic lingering in the air doesn’t feel like protection spells or whatever rituals she uses to work on her mirror, it just feels like a presence. Cool and warm. Anders. He fidgets despite himself, and takes a long, centring breath. </p><p>Merrill watches him, and frowns. “Do you want to talk outside?” She offers, but Fenris shakes his head. He used to have to, sometimes, to get through the conversation or just because the lyrium in his skin was burning too hot against the magic in the air. So they’d go outside, and he’d chop some firewood, and Merrill would try to help him work out whether it was <em> pain </em> he was feeling or <em> fear </em>. </p><p>Fenris has been working on not being afraid. He has been working on it since he ripped the black heart out of that despicable Magister. Some still naive part of him had actually hoped that the feeling of always having to look over his shoulder would end with that, but it didn’t. If anything, being around for the aftermath was harder than anticipating the chase. He had space to be, to live, and all his vigilance found itself directed at phantoms. Fear without reason led to gnawing doubt, to snappish attitude and his famous brooding. Merrill and Isabella had seemed for a while to be the only people who believed he could ever be anything different. But now, at least a little bit, he is. </p><p>Magic, however, still puts Fenris on edge. It suits him fine in a fight, but the way his body tenses up in reaction to just the mere presence of a mage quickly becomes troublesome in a game of wicked grace. He can feel it in the lyrium that runs through him, and sometimes it <em> hurts. </em> But sometimes he only tenses up with the expectation of hurt, and his own thoughts are what take away his breath. It doesn't help either, that sometimes the markings burn just at the grazing of an innocent touch, or for no reason at all. And it also doesn't help that sometimes his whole body seems to freeze up into a lockbox of tense muscles without any hint of magic or lyrium pain to spur it all, just some unwanted memory or sharp sound.</p><p>So he has been working on it, because he loves Hawke, and he has a few fond feelings for Merrill, though they’re sometimes tempered by mild disapproval, and he even occasionally tolerates Anders. And because he does not want to be that man; afraid. Not anymore. </p><p>“Here,” Merrill hands him a bundle of herbs she’s collected and dried for him, and he takes off one leaf to chew on before stuffing the rest into a pocket. Elfroot and spindleweed, for his pain. He sighs. “How have you been?” Merrill asks with friendly curiosity, and Fenris shrugs. </p><p>“Fine.” He says, but he is frowning, the cold affects it too, and he feels old and creaky. </p><p>"You know, Anders could probably help with the pain from your markings more than me…" She keeps telling him that she's not a healer, but magical healing isn't what he wants. He can steady himself, breathe through the pain when it flares up and treat his skin with herbs. And when that fails, he can grit his teeth and bear it; he's never going to be like Merrill, trusting and comfortable and almost insufferably <em> soft </em>. </p><p>She shrugs away the rest of her suggestion at the look on his face, and he changes the subject. </p><p>“How about you? Have those Templars been back?” A couple weeks ago they came knocking on doors through the Alienage while he was over having dinner with Merril, Varric, and Isabella, and he’d had to glare them down until they passed her house by. They’re getting bolder, and as much as he worries about the harm a rogue mage can do, he worries more about his <em> own </em> rogue mages -- Hawke and Merrill, the ones he trusts. </p><p>“No.” Merrill says slowly, “but I’m going to help Anders do something about it soon, I think.” </p><p>He narrows his gaze toward her. Mild disapproval. <em> “Merrill.” </em> </p><p>She ignores his tone and gets up to start doing something; fixing dinner, chopping vegetables, avoiding his impending lecture. </p><p>“I don’t understand why you still bother.” He continues, his scolding tone apparently falling on deaf ears as she continues to bustle about. "He isn't worth your time."</p><p>“He needs help.” Merrill says plainly, though she’s still avoiding his eye. </p><p>“You heard what he said to Hawke, didn’t you?” He grumbles in response, and he sees Merrill’s shoulders tense up and then fall again, because she does remember, and she is angry, and she’s stupid to still trust the volatile abomination that even Hawke has stopped calling friend. </p><p>“He didn’t mean it.” She says quietly, and Fenris feels his own shoulders tense up at her defence of him. “He’s having a hard time.” </p><p>“Is he now?” Fenris spits back, trying for a bitter reminder that a <em> hard time </em> is hardly an excuse, but coming across more petulant than anything else. The thought of Anders’ hard time sticks in his mind with unwelcome concern. </p><p>He hears Merrill sigh. “He’s a good person, Fenris.” </p><p>“He isn't a person.” Fenris’ sword arm twitches; lyrium ache, or maybe just the tightness of having almost lost it, once. </p><p>“Well, I want to help.” She finishes the argument with a certainty that she’s clearly spent a good deal of effort mustering, finally turning to look at him with hard eyes. Fenris sighs back at her. </p><p>“Fine, I’m coming with you.” He says, better at certainty than she is.</p><p>"You don't have to do that." There's a mix of emotion in her voice. Guilt, and also pride.</p><p>"Yes I do." He says, and he knows he sounds hard, like he doesn't think she can handle herself. But he knows too, from the way she sighs and then hands him a carrot to peel, that she hasn't taken it to heart. She knows enough about him not to.</p><p>Fenris doesn't trust easily. And even when he does, he'll never trust anyone like he trusts himself. He takes on too much, sits with his problems until they get too heavy, even still. He will never be like Merrill, earnestly helpful and brimming with benevolent concern, but when something needs doing, he is rarely willing to leave it to anyone else.</p><p>He peels the carrot and passes it to Merrill, who passes him another one and begins chopping, a thin smile curling at her lips.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>More going off in the notes!<br/>Oh boy does Fenris mirror Anders, this was quite fun to write. While with Anders I wanted to portray a sympathetic but still unhealthy downward spiral, with Fenris I really wanted to work with how he is heading upwards. But you know, there's still trauma. Unlike Anders though, who is isolating a lot and kind of raging inward, Fenris has been at this personal growth thing for a bit. So there was a lot to kind of pack in, and it's flashback heavy. Struggled a bit with the tenses, so please tell me if it works! </p><p>Also, I like the Isabella/Fenris relationship, I think they'd be good for each other, and even though that isn't happening here, I felt like it was a good place to get Fenris going on working through some of his stuff. He has all these feelings of fear and guardedness with intimacy and would undoubtedly struggle with jealousy, but where that is coming from with him is so rooted in his trauma so uhh. yeah. there you go. therapy time. Also, it felt like a more natural tipping point than some other aspects of his ptsd, which he's obviously been internalizing and sort of dealing with for years. This is him struggling with change, and with trust and relationships, and coming into a friendship with Merrill starts with that because he is starting to want to figure out how to talk about those things. </p><p>Ok that's it for the obnoxious running commentary on my own fic for this chapter, folks! Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Varric</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So who does Merrill go to for therapy? An obvious answer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Varric struts out into the Lowtown marketplace like he owns it, because he does. At least some of it. He's got investments in at least three shipping companies, and probably some contracts with a fence or two that need reviewing. People recognize him when he walks by, either because they're regulars at the Hanged Man or because he owes them money, but either way he gives each face that stops to look up at him a tip of his hat and a confident little nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes his way over to the collection of produce stands, all of which look a little dingy and smell a little rotten, and scans the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's easy to spot, a dark shock of bead-decorated hair contrasting against tawny, boldly tattooed skin, leaning her face in close to inspect something that's a little too lumpy and beige to be a pear, and he shoulders through the crowd towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey there, Daisy.” He says, rocking up beside her as she passes the fruit vendor a copper coin for the lumpy...probably pear. Maybe turnip. He isn't sure if a turnip is a fruit. Either way, if she's paying a whole copper for it, she should at least get two, and he says so before he says anything else, levelling a shrewd eye against the fruit vendor until Merrill is passed another one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him as she places the produce carefully into her basket, and he takes her arm by the elbow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Glad to see you made it." He teases, and immediately he has to pause to pull Merrill back from stepping into the road and getting bowled over by a courier. "You remember your list?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill nods and reaches into her basket. "Here, everything I need for the stew." She proclaims, producing a wrinkled scrap of paper lined with her tiny, messy handwriting. Varric squints at it. Vegetables, spices, some cuts of meat, nothing too extravagant. But she's added in notes, in her longhand way, alternatives to buy if the right ingredients can’t be found, directions to remind herself of where each stall is that rely on things like <em>"next to the stand run by the red-haired dwarf"</em> and <em>"second street after Hanged Man"</em> to be followed. Pears, he notices, aren't anywhere on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." He says, "what have you got?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Two pears, six sweet potatoes, green yarn, and a pair of wool socks." She says proudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"From the list, Daisy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric shakes his head and sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well the socks are for you, anyway.” Merril says, fishing them out of her impossible, probably enchanted basket and holding them out with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the socks, used to random gifts from Merrill by now, but not entirely sure what he's done to deserve them. They're thick, and bright green, and will probably stretch halfway up his calves. He raises an eyebrow and looks up at her with a curious smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's getting cold out, and I know your socks are all wearing too thin. Your feet will rub and get blisters and smell </span>
  <em>
    <span>even worse.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" She remarks in her usual way, dropping the insulting tidbit like an innocent fact. She does know, of course, exactly what she's said; she's not overly fond of sarcasm, but she's taken to the concept of "messing" with people with delight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles and stuffs the things into his own bag, though they're so absurdly fluffy that they still stick out a bit. They will, undoubtedly, prove an invaluable gift when the snows really do hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on Daisy,” He tugs her by the elbow, leading her in the exact opposite direction of the one that she had started off in, “let’s get you groceries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes Merrill’s list and in a moment has calculated a route through the marketplace that will see her stocked with optimal efficiency. Merrill perches by his shoulder as he guides her around and does most of the talking, passing from stall to stall collecting produce and collecting on favours to lower the prices. Merrill tells him which vegetables are ripe, which cuts of meat are the best butchered, and when she starts down one of those rambling lines of fretting she does over the spices, he scoops them all up before she can finish her conversation with herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the nutmeg is expensive, and I don’t really need it for the recipe, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>traditional… I suppose if I bought some I could use it with the pears as well, oh but then I should be getting fresh ginger, not dried, and that’s more expensive too. Maybe I could use it with the sweet potatoes too, to make it worthwhile, but then that’s more sugar and —” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric drops a large horn of ginger and a paper-bagged collection of the nuts into her basket, along with several bunches of leaves she didn’t ask for and a sugarloaf, tossing a few of his own coins over to the vendor before Merrill can finish reworking her menu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Varric!” She protests, not catching what he’s done until the weight of the sugar tugs at her shoulder, and he pulls her along to the next stand without looking back, though Merrill does, guiltily. “Those were expensive!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounds concerned about it, which makes him a little sad. She’s always concerned when people dote on her, and it’s a damn waste of time; people don’t dote around Kirkwall very often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” he says, because he’s trying to coach her into just saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> when they do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t need all that.” She doesn’t get the hint, and she’s still looking back, neck careening around to glimpse the stall through the crowds, no doubt debating if she should spring from his arm and attempt to return half the spices. He shrugs and gives Merrill’s arm a gentle pat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were they? Seemed like a bargain to me.” He keeps a good eye on his money, but he hasn’t troubled about how much of it he spends on items of </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste</span>
  </em>
  <span> for years. “You know I can’t cook for shit, Daisy. Bring me an extra plate of whatever you make, and we’ll call it even.” He winks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of his relationships are transactional, and he keeps a sort of running tab with even his closest friends, though for them the deals tend to be rigged in their favour. Blondie owes him a drink because he lost more than he had the last time they played cards, Rivaini owes him a new hat because she’s stolen half of his, and they look better on her, Hawke owes him a story, the next time she’s up for it. Merrill doesn’t owe him anything, she’d bring him an extra plate anyway, but he throws her the line to make her feel better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will!” She says enthusiastically, “I’ll bake you a whole pie!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric chuckles, wondering what he’s gotten himself into. “In that case we’ll need ale,” he declares, “good, strong, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dark</span>
  </em>
  <span> ale; nothing goes better with pie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill giggles, and he leads her through the marketplace towards the docks, where his favourite smugglers should be unloading barrels of the stuff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her basket is full, and probably heavy, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she hops along beside him. She’s stronger than she looks, and probably stronger too than the vagrants leering out at them from the alleyways, though not as perceptive as she should be. He glares away the potential muggers and she is none the wiser, and before long he’s helping her unload more things than should rightly have fit into her bag, back in her little kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill sighs happily, hands on her hips as she surveys her newly-organized array of spices. “Thank you so much Varric, I’d never have gotten all that done in one trip; I always forget something.” She turns, smiling, and then her eyes land on her desk and she shouts “oh!”, because she has forgotten something. Varric chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blankets!” She exclaims, rushing to the desk and grabbing up a stack of knitted blankets in an array of bright colours. “Do you think Anders is still working?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>working?” Varric replies, raising an eyebrow as Merrill stuffs the entire thick stack into her impossible little basket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should run these over before it gets dark,” she continues, narrating her thoughts like she’s writing a book, “sorry I can’t offer you tea, Varric, but I really do need to talk to Anders.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll walk with you,” he offers, and before she can try to stop him he adds, “Blondie owes me money, anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walkways and roads through the Alienage are cracked and pitted with holes, and some of the buildings have loose siding and loose shingles and there’s a bit of a smell, wafting down from the dirtier ends of the lowtown markets, but it’s nothing compared to Darktown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darktown only barely exists. It isn’t on any official maps, the City Guard doesn’t patrol the tunnels and the Templars only venture into them when they’re feeling particularly antagonistic; the treatment that a full set of armour gets you in Darktown doesn’t discriminate for members of the Chantry. The maze of tunnels are only drawn up on Carta maps, and those are usually cryptic and coded and Merrill wouldn’t be able to follow them even if she had one, but Varric’s got the network committed to memory. It’s a complicated path, even at its most direct; the tunnels can feel like they’re changing, the way they loop around on themselves and occasionally get blocked off by stacks of refuse or thugs demanding tolls that only increase once they’ve been paid. They also smell like rotting dung and day old sick, mostly because that’s where all the city’s dung and sick ends up, and sometimes also like other things that Varric would rather not know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric leads Merrill carefully by the shortest route, brandishing his crossbow openly and nudging her to step around the puddles of </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’d rather not know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she would otherwise miss. They come out near Anders’ clinic, a ramshackle structure of scrap metal and shoddily built rooms sticking out of one of the city’s great slabs of decrepit stone wall. Anders inhabits one of the fresher-smelling parts of the grim underworld, closer to the ends of the sewer system where the tunnels lead out to the sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you need to see Blondie for?” Varric questions Merrill as they walk, one arm hooked firmly around her elbow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got a plan to disrupt the Templars,” Merrill says, speaking Anders. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Disrupt </span>
  </em>
  <span>is one of his words; Merrill doesn’t hit first. “To keep them away from the Alienage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric frowns. “You sure that’s a good idea, Daisy? Pissing off Templars rarely ends well.” Unless you’re Hawke, famously untouchable and too rich for your own good, the Templars generally come back from slights with double the force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to do something,” she shrugs, still sounding like Anders, “it’s a very careful plan.” She promises, and if it's Anders’ plan it probably is. He’s angry, but he is a very careful apostate, at least compared to some. “Fenris is coming too.” Merrill adds, and Varric stops in his tracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill looks back at him, then down at his feet, as if she’s checking to see if he’s stepped in something. He supposes his face must make it look like he has. “I guess that’s me in too,” he says through his grimace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill begins a protest, and he holds up a silencing hand. “Someone’s going to have to keep those two from killing each other.” He says, crossing his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, and even though she still looks like she wants to protest, she does look a good deal less worried. “Thank you.” She says, voice serious and thoughtful, before turning to enter the clinic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders is working, and it does look like hard work. Sweating, grimacing, glowing from his eyeballs and grunting as he rubs his hands together, sparks of weird shit zapping around in the air about him. The dwarven woman on the cot in front of him is watching in awe, her skin sealing itself up around her tattered and bloody leather cuirass. Anders finishes putting the rough looking bandit back together again, and she offers him some coin, bless her Carta soul. Anders refuses it with a patient smile and she stiffly limps herself away, shaking her head a little with a look of bewildered awe still on her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Anders!” Merrill pipes up happily, waving from the entrance of his clinic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders has slouched back down into the chair next to the cot, eyes back to normal and sweat trampling down his strawlike hair. He looks up with a start, and waves back with a weak little smile. Merril skips forward, pulls the absurd stack of blankets from her basket, and thrusts them into his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought you blankets,” she smiles down at him, and he stutters something back at her in a disgruntled mutter that Varric can’t make out, but which had better be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I hear we’re gearing up for some </span>
  <em>
    <span>disruption,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Varric joins Merrill, careful not to touch anything as he leans back on his heels and examines Anders with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders looks between them curiously, then sighs. “Sure, I’ll take all the help I can get.” He shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll cost you,” Varric promises with a nod, and Anders frowns at him because Anders is almost as bad for taking things literally as Merrill is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you need?” He sighs out, exhausted and unimpressed with Varric’s little game of tit for tat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a headache that won’t quit, and this other troubling ache, down in my </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Varric expounds with flowery exaggeration, “an existential ennui, I feel a dark bitterness creeping over my best intentions, injustice stabbing at my bleeding heart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders rolls his eyes. “That’s called living in Kirkwall.” He mutters, knowing full well that it’s what Varric calls </span>
  <em>
    <span>writing Anders</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know any cures?” He quips back, smirking at Anders; he already knows what he’s going to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You tell me, Varric.” Anders shakes his head, “you seem to manage it better than most.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric grins, “drink and gambling.” He posits confidently, “you already owe me one drink, let’s make it two.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anders reluctantly returns to the surface with them, glaring out from under his hood with eyes that are fiery even when they aren’t on fire, and Varric ushers both his companions into the Hanged Man like a lordly host. He’s home, and he can make anyone else feel at home here too. He bats snow off of Anders’ coat with hearty, gruff pats, and takes Merrill’s shawl from her with a gracious nod, grinning when she sweetly thanks him. With a wave to Corff he has their drinks ordered; a round of whatever’s best, and when he turns to shoulder through the crowds, they seem to part in his wake. He finds a good corner table and claims it, and Merrill and Anders settle in, with Anders across from him and Merrill to his side, backed by walls so that they can look out at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes Anders tell him what he will of his plan, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>careful; sneaking around in broad daylight, very little violence. The general idea seems to be in setting up a wild goose chase to distract and drain resources, but all Anders needs to do is this one piece of work for that group he calls an </span>
  <em>
    <span>underground</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and even he doesn’t seem to know the whole scope of the chase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your plan’s solid, Blondie,” Varric says slowly, talking over his ale in a low growl, “but you leave the getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> part to me.” Anders suggested distractions and carefully placed blows to Templar heads in order to steal their armour, but Varric has some slightly better ideas: “I may know a guy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first drink is for business, but the second is for pleasure. If that isn’t one of his sayings, Varric thinks, it’s about to be. After he’s done plying Anders for information, he lets the man have some reprieve. Forces it on him, actually, digging a deck of cards out of one pocket and a tough leather notebook bound with his quill from the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Anders protests, seeing him flip the notebook open to a scorecard and begin to shuffle the cards. Merril watches him fan the cards out and drop them in a cascade with an intense squint, trying to teach herself the technique. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cut the deck, Daisy,” Varric says, ignoring Anders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill takes half the cards and hands them back, and he shuffles them in fast, then starts to deal. Anders leans back in his seat with crossed arms, but when Merrill picks up her cards and looks them over, raising her eyebrows in a hilariously obvious tell, he looks tempted. A large swig of his ale later and he’s got his hand of cards up close to his face, elbows on the table, squinting over the array at the bit of coin Varric’s tossed into the middle of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One game.” He insists, and while normally Varric would take that as a challenge, egging him on for all he’s worth, the circles under Anders' eyes tell him that tonight that isn’t very much, even if all he is really playing for is conversation and laughter. So they play one game, and Merrill loses, folding early with a hand that Varric would have been able to name down to the colours and suits, because she practically announces them each turn. Then he lets Anders win, making a little note about it in his book and pushing the coin his way. Anders gives Varric a very long look, like he’s trying to figure out how he cheated, even though he lost the game. He won’t though, Varric is nothing if not a subtle liar. And anyway, he can’t afford to look too hard, and he thrusts the coin into pockets that definitely have holes in them before wrapping his cloak back around himself, tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders leaves with a little more heat in his cheeks and a little less in his eyes, which means Varric has won all he came for, and Anders can buy those damned cats of his some food, or whatever shit he spends his money on. Then he is left with Merrill, who is red-cheeked and swaying a little under the influence of her two pints of beer. He waves to a waitress and gets her some water, and she downs the glass in one long, thirsty sip, grinning at him when she’s done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you got him to smile.” She says, the light in her big eyes doing a worried little dance, “everyone is so tense, these days.” She sighs, “even Hawke.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially Hawke, Varric thinks with a frown, and he nods and sighs back, passing her the deck of cards so that she can fiddle with it while she asks him for stories, like she’s about to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen her?” She asks carefully, first, and Varric’s frown deepens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did a job the other day.” He replies, “and I went over to look at her accounts, but they’re such a mess, we didn’t really get up to much chatting.” It’s true, Hawke’s books are a mess — not that he’s actually any good at managing them — but that isn’t why they didn’t chat. Merrill nods sadly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I knew what to say.” She says, “to help her feel better.” She shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much for it but time, Daisy,” Varric replies reassuringly, “you know our girl, she’ll be alright.” As though Hawke has ever been that. “And how about you? Not too weighed down by all the city’s sob stories?” He knows Merrill opens her doors to pretty much anyone who needs an ear; teacher of Dalish lore to the elves in the Alienage turned compassionate friend to all of Kirkwall. It’s a bit like what he does, listening to stories and asking the right sorts of questions, only he writes the answers down and his advice is generally more sordid, and Merrill doesn’t get paid. “You know you should really start charging for those lessons you offer.” He reminds her, not for the first time. Merrill shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hardly even do anything.” She says, even though as a lifelong peddler of stories, Varric knows that listening is where the real work is, “winter just makes people lonely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That it does.” He agrees, and he gets himself another pint. “You let me know if you change your mind though, you really could make a killing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill laughs, and shakes her head again. She drinks more water and drops the cards all over the table several times while he talks, telling stories that are mostly made up and dirtier than Darktown, because Merrill likes those ones best. Then Varric pays the tab before she can do anything about it, and he steadies her arm to walk her out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, I know the way.” She insists as he starts to walk down the cold, slippery street with her, thin whisps of snow drifting around their feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the same,” he says, and ends the argument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill invites him in for tea when they get to her house, even though it’s too late for it and she’s practically falling asleep on his shoulder as they walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was a very lovely day.” She announces sleepily, before giving him a happy hug. He chuckles. Lovely is probably Merrill’s favourite word, and when she is drunk she uses it for everything, “you’re lovely.” She continues, releasing him with a smile. “You are always so kind and generous and I am so lucky to have you as a friend.” Varric has seen things in whorehouses that she could not even imagine without so much as a raise of his eyebrow, but this? This makes him blush. No one anywhere says sweet things like Merrill. “You sure you don’t want to come in for tea?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No thanks, Daisy. Just you saying that warmed me right up.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A plot is slowly forming in the background of this fic now, but it's still mostly character study. I don't have much to say about this one, I just really like Varric and Varric and Merrill being the mom and dad friends of this terribly traumatized little group.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Merrill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Templar disruption goes awry, Merrill does her best to be keeperly, Anders plays with a kitten. I contnue to slowly set up my dominoes...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What were you thinking?!” Fenris demands, his hands flying for Anders’ throat. He holds him up, lifting his whole towering, string bean of a body up by the scruff of his coat and bringing his face in close with a snarl. </p><p>Anders squints, tense annoyance in his brows, and he shoves at Fenris’ hands, which don’t budge. “Let go of me.” he grunts, but Fenris only gives him a rough shake. </p><p>“What is wrong with you?” Fenris makes another angry demand, and this time when Anders shoves at his hands he adds a tiny jolt of lightning, not enough to even burn the skin, just enough to startle. And then startled, Fenris lets go. </p><p>Anders drops back to the ground from where he was held hovering just above his tiptoes, and steps back defensively. Fenris comes at him again, fists clenched and angry, while Merrill shouts “hey!” and Varric jumps in to cut them both off before things come to blows. </p><p>Fenris is glaring at Anders, and Anders is glaring back, and Fenris is angry that Anders used magic and Anders is angry that Fenris <em> picked him up by his coat </em> and they are shouting as much at each other, over Varric, and Merrill is still shouting “hey, hey!”, when Varric finally snaps. </p><p>“Alright, enough!” </p><p>Merrill stops shouting, watching Anders and Fenris do the same, and breathing out in relief when both of them lean back with arms crossed; unhappy, but at least no longer in fighting positions. </p><p>“Blondie,” Varric turns around, his arms are crossed too, and everyone’s faces are so full of wrinkles, “you heard the man. What were you <em> thinking </em>?” </p><p>Anders sighs and the breath of it is so heavy that it pushes some of his hair out of his eyes for a second, and then it falls right back into his face. “It was the only chance I’d get, it was worth the risk.” </p><p>“What was?” Merrill asks, her voice a much higher, squeakier pitch than her companions’, and the wrinkles on <em> her </em>brow are over the eyebrows, which she’s raised high. She feels her face reacting, hears her voice timidly squeaking, but she can’t help it. She’s never been any good at dealing with people who are shouting. </p><p>“Getting the maps,” Anders looks at her hopefully, and she isn’t quite sure why, but it's usually something he does when she’s the only other mage around, and he’s done something rebellious. Otherwise, he looks at Hawke for those moments, and Hawke usually responds the right way, though not always, and she probably wouldn’t now. Merrill doesn’t know what she should do with her face. </p><p>“What maps?” </p><p>“Of the caves, where they keep them.”</p><p>“Keep…” Merrill wonders what Templars could be keeping in caves. Certainly not mages, right? </p><p>“The phylacteries,” Anders explains, impatient, like she should know this. Phylacteries. She knows what they are, of course, and maybe Anders has talked about them being in caves before, he talks about things like that a lot. And she really does care, she just doesn’t always understand, or <em> follow </em>, because Anders uses all these words for things and places she’s never heard of when he talks about the Circles, and she feels silly asking so many questions. She feels like all she ever does is ask questions. So sometimes she just listens to Anders and understands the sentiment and agrees that being free is better, because it is, and now Anders is annoyed that she doesn’t remember about phylacteries being in caves. </p><p>Fenris doesn’t like this explanation. “You never said anything about any maps,” he complains, but Merrill notices that he doesn’t comment on the phylacteries being in caves. Maybe he understands better than she does, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s got blood on his cheeks and he looks very unhappy about it. </p><p>“I wasn’t sure,” Anders mutters, which doesn’t help.</p><p>“You <em> planned </em> this” — Fenris interrupts him, and he looks like he might barrel right over Varric after all, so Merrill squeaks, </p><p>—”Hey!” And this time it works, and everyone looks at her. She straightens, and looks at Anders. “What happened?” </p><p>“He almost got caught, is what happened,” answers Fenris, through harsh and gnashing teeth, but Merrill already knew that, because the two of them had shouted “run!” as they sped past, dropping bits of Templar armour through the alleys as they bolted in a panicked rush through the streets away from the Templar hall, and Merrill and Varric followed, doing the same, while confused shouts echoed in the distance. Now, Fenris has blood on his face and Anders has excuses about maps and Varric is still standing between them, looking almost as confused as she is, and she just wants to know what is going on. </p><p>“How?” growls Varric, who is doing a much better job of managing their shouting friends than she is. </p><p>Anders, reluctantly, explains what happened. Fenris watches him with an unflinching glare, interrupting every now and then with a disapproving grunt, but not correcting any of the facts: </p><p>They hadn’t had time to do everything together, so Anders had instructed them to split up. Disguised as Templars, they needed to accomplish two things: sneak some messages <em> in </em> , and sneak some messages <em> out </em> . The files that needed to go <em> in </em> needed to go to the basement, where the Templars keep records behind a lyrium-locked door and bureaucratic regulations upheld by a discerning old captain. The paperwork to sneak <em> out </em> was upstairs, on the top floor in a chest with another lyrium lock and not very much time between guard rotations. Both directions needed mages, for the lyrium locks. “One thing Templars and mages have in common,” Anders had explained, “is that they can both use lyrium.” It was a spell he’d worked out on his own, apparently, that wouldn’t break the lock and therefore wouldn’t leave any trace of their meddling. He’d gotten Merrill to practice it a few times, and it was surprisingly easy. She had wondered if she should add a lyrium lock to her house. </p><p>So, both parties had needed a mage, and the downstairs party had needed a good liar. It could have been Varric and Anders, and Fenris and Merrill, but Anders had insisted that he go upstairs, and he’d never really properly explained why. But there hadn’t been time, and Fenris wanted to keep an eye on him anyway, and it was probably a good thing he did — he interjected to say, grunting and glaring at Anders some more — because Anders almost ruined everything. </p><p>They’d done what they came for, but apparently after that Anders had lingered in the room, searching the drawers of a desk, and then he’d bolted off into another room down the hall and unlocked another chest, but this one had been more complicated, or something, and someone had seen him and gotten suspicious and because their good liar was downstairs, Fenris had had to punch that someone hard in the jaw, to save Anders. Which is how he got the blood on his cheeks, and why he is so unhappy about it. </p><p>“But I <em> got </em> them,” Anders says, still looking hopefully at Merrill, “and that changes <em> everything </em>.” </p><p>She isn’t completely sure how it does, and she isn’t sure if she should be happy for him or not. He’s right about the freedom thing, after all, and all of this was for that, but Fenris and Varric both look very unimpressed. </p><p>“Andraste’s arse, Blondie, you could have told us.” Varric mutters, shaking his head. </p><p>Anders says, “would you have helped if I had?” and then there is a tense silence after Varric says “yes,” and Fenris says “no,” and Merrill doesn’t say anything at all. </p><p>Anders sighs. “Right, well, it’s done now.” he says, mostly to Varric. Fenris’ glare narrows. </p><p>“If you’d been <em> caught </em>” — Fenris begins, still not satisfied with any of this, his hands clenching back into fists after he finally wipes the blood from his cheeks. </p><p>— “You’d be dancing in the streets, no doubt,” Anders cuts him off with a tone that Merrill <em> thinks </em> can still be called sarcastic. Barely. </p><p>“Don’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself?” Fenris bites back, not just angry, <em> desperately </em>angry. Practically pleading, and definitely about to punch him. </p><p>“Other than myself?” Anders repeats, flinging his hands into the air in a dramatic show of offense, “these maps could help save <em> every apostate mage </em> who has ever fled the Gallows!” He takes a deep breath, and Merrill thinks, <em> he’s going to go on one of those long, complicated rants. </em>Maybe if he can get through it without getting punched she’ll be able to understand how this changes everything. “Imagine, if when Danarius was tracking you, you could have stopped it! Destroyed his ability to find out where you are. Would you not have done anything for the chance?” </p><p>“That’s different.” Fenris barks, but Merrill’s understanding is beginning to shape up, and she’s not actually sure that it is. </p><p>“You’re right, you are just one person. This could help free <em> hundreds </em>.” </p><p>Fenris still argues, sometimes, about whether or not mages should be kept in Circles. He’s argued about it with Anders plenty, and he used to wholeheartedly believe that there was no other solution for a mage, except death. But then he’d argued with Hawke about it, on and off for years, and sometimes with Merrill, and while he’s never once agreed with Anders, he’s conceded a few points over the years. He admitted to her once that the Dalish seem to have a few good ideas, and he’s never tried to turn in Hawke — or Anders, for that matter. And Merrill has seen how he looks at the chains over the Gallows, his own wrists twitching as he scowls up at the creaking, dull grey loops of iron. </p><p>“And if you’d been caught we’d <em> all </em> have been screwed.” Varric interjects, which seems to satisfy Fenris’ part of the argument, for now. </p><p>“Well I wasn’t.” Anders crosses his arms in a huff, and across from him, on the other side of Varric, Fenris does too. Merrill would giggle at how very alike they look, standing face to face, each wearing half a suit of armour — opposing halves, Anders in greaves and silver knee plates, Fenris still wearing a chestplate and the clawed gauntlets that bought their escape — mirrored brows and identical scowls and eyes that pop in contrasting colours. Maybe soon they’ll both start to glow, she thinks, and she tries not to giggle. It would not be appropriate to giggle, right now. But she can’t help it, because she’s really, <em> really </em>, never been any good at dealing with people who are angry. </p><p>“You’re <em> welcome </em>.” Fenris growls, “don’t expect it again.” </p><p>When Hawke found out about Fenris’ situation, his on-the-run-from-slavers situation, she’d more or less dropped everything to help. Spent inordinate amounts of money. Accompanied him to all sorts of dingy places. If you asked him, which Merrill has, he’d say it was the bedrock of their friendship. No one had ever tried to help him like that. He forgave a lot for Hawke, because of how viciously she fought for him. Hawke and Fenris have almost nothing in common, other than a wild hate for slavers, but she’s charming, and fiery, and once she draws you in she really doesn’t let go, so she’s been holding together her collection of strange runaways for years, and Anders comes with the package. Or he did; now things are complicated. But in those first few years, Anders and Hawke had many more things in common than Hawke and Fenris, and a wild hate for slavers was always one of them. </p><p>Anders had worked almost as hard as Hawke had at helping him, at the time. Pouring over maps, tagging along to every fight in dingy caves, setting slavers on fire. No one ever had to ask why Anders did it, it’s all he ever talks about; why he does everything he does. Freedom. When they finally fought Danarius, it was as much thanks to Anders as it was to Hawke that Fenris made it out alive and free — or maybe it was thanks to Justice. Either way, Fenris has never forgiven him for it. But Merrill knows, without having to ask, that this is why Fenris has just saved Anders’ life. It’s why he’s saved his life probably hundreds of times, taking his blows and deflecting fireballs aimed at him with his sword. He’d never admit it — might not even realise he does it. But Merrill sees a lot more than people think she does, especially in fights. </p><p>Fenris fights well on a team, he stops blows for her and for Varric and for Isabella and Hawke, too. And Anders is also the one who casts healing and protective spells, so it’s best when he doesn’t get hurt, but still. Fenris has a bad habit of thinking he owes everyone who has ever done anything kind for him his life, and that’s not something he’s about to tell Anders. He’s told Hawke, sure, and he’s talked to Merrill a little about how guilty Isabella’s frequent gifts make him feel, but with Anders he just dives headfirst in front of angry bandits, and then yells at him about his recklessness afterwards. </p><p>Fenris throws down his borrowed gauntlets and begins to unbuckle the chestplate, and then with a grumpy kick at the pile of armour he turns to stomp away. Varric sighs out a breath of relief and Anders watches after him with his arms still crossed and his brows still wrinkled, not saying anything, and it becomes clear to Merrill that no one else is going to do what needs to be done to set this whole thing right. So she puts on her best approximation of a keeper voice, and one more time, shouts, “hey!”</p><p>Merril was supposed to be a keeper. That’s what Keeper Merethari said, when she joined clan Sabrae and Marethari started to teach her about magic. Merethari was a good keeper — firm and strict, but she had to be. Merethari did not think that Merril would make a good keeper; she lacked the decisiveness, the strength of character, the authoritativeness. Merril knows this, because Merethari spent a lot of time trying to discipline the right characteristics into her, and they never stuck. She’s still pretty much incapable of sounding anything like how she thinks a keeper ought to sound, even when she tries very hard to keep the pitch of her voice in a mature and confident sounding register and her face under control, but she knows one thing: when someone does something nice for you, you should always say thank you. Especially when they save your life. So when Anders looks at her again, that’s exactly what she tells him. Her Keeper Voice is particularly weak today, still too breathy from running through the streets and too shaky from trying not to giggle — or cry, or any of the other things that seem to just <em> happen to her </em> when people are shouting. But Anders’ brows unfurl a little, and Varric even chuckles, and then with a deep breath and a tone that she is <em> almost </em> completely sure is not sarcastic, Anders calls after Fenris, and he says “thank you.” </p><p>Fenris turns around, scowls at all of them, though it’s mostly for Anders, and he says, “I didn’t do it for <em> you</em>.” before turning and continuing his stomping departure. </p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>Merrill finishes unlocking her door and leans her whole body into it to get it to budge. Anders places a large hand on it, over her shoulder, and pushes too, and it scrapes its rough circle over the floor again as a blast of chill wind rushes through and ruffles the papers on her desk.  </p><p>"Tea?" she offers as they step inside, already slipped out of her coat, and hopping out of her boots as she walks across the threshold. </p><p>“Uh” — he nods while he leans his staff up against the wall, “sure,” he says, in that lightly surprised way that he always agrees to being welcomed with warm comforts. Maybe it is because they have just been shouting at one another in the street, but Merrill thinks of Fenris again; how he always takes his tea the same way — more formality in his speech, but the same hesitancy on his lips. </p><p>Her house is cold, so she throws together a fire quickly — magically — and Anders blinks in the sudden flare of light from her hearth. Anders uses magic for his work, but he doesn’t use it for <em> everything </em> the way she does. She thinks he should, since he loves being free and all, but she’s watched him struggle over wet logs dozens of times, eventually giving up and casting a little spark into the fire pits of their camps with side-to-side glances, like he’s cheating at cards.</p><p>Merrill sighs into her chair, still tired from running through the streets and a little shaken from the ensuing confrontation, but Anders seems to have energy. He’s brighter and bouncier than she’s seen him in weeks, happy about his maps, whatever respect it may have cost him. Not that Fenris has ever shown him much, and not that Anders has ever tried to give him a reason to, picking fights more often than he finishes them. Maybe Anders secretly likes getting him to growl, she thinks. Sometimes, when she was little, other children would pull at the beads in her hair and Merethari would say it was because they liked her, but were afraid to admit it. Scared of her because of what she was. So maybe it’s like that. If it is, she should scold him for it, because it's unfair and childish, and when she was a child <em> she </em> didn’t like that at all. </p><p>He has more plans. He wants to talk about how they can use the maps, wonders if she can tell Hawke about it for him, because he knows she’ll want in but she… well, she probably won’t listen to him. </p><p>Merrill crosses her arms, she has about enough energy left in her to say one more keeperish thing, so she says, “you should tell her yourself.” </p><p>Anders frowns. </p><p>“We’re having a dinner at the estate tomorrow night, you should come.” Merrill continues, trying to be bright about it. Anders is still frowning, so she expands a little more, and then when he still doesn’t say anything, keeps expanding, until finally realising that he isn’t going to say anything to get her to stop and spiralling through the meandering thought all on her own: “everyone is going over, I’m making a stew. Varric thinks it will help to make things like they were again, at least a little, and you could bring some of those mushrooms you cultivated, for the stew, or — or a game? And if you tell Hawke you’re sorry about what you said to her before, and about the maps and the plans, well I’m sure she’d want to know. Maybe if you bring her a gift? Hawke likes gifts, and I can help you work out what you want to say, if you’d like.” She stops there, looking up at him from her seat with a timid smile and imploring eyes, and Anders loses some of the bouncy energy he had. </p><p>“Everyone?” He repeats, though Merrill knows he just means Fenris. She nods. </p><p>“You <em> could </em> apologize to him, too.” She suggests, a little too meekly, and Anders’ face shifts into a full blown grimace. </p><p>“Why? He attacked <em> me </em>.” </p><p>“Magic hurts his skin.” Merrill says carefully, “you shouldn’t have shocked him.” That Fenris is sensitive to magic is obvious enough, he flinches when his brands glow, and they <em> all </em> saw what happened when the Magister put a hand on him, even if the next thing they saw was the sundering of his bleeding heart from his chest. She doesn’t mention that it’s been worse since then, or that it’s worse when the weather is cold; Fenris would absolutely kill her if she went about telling Anders — anyone — things like that. Well, not kill her. Yell at her though, which would be just as terrible. Besides that, it just wouldn’t be kind, and she may never know when to stop chattering, always finding herself three run-on sentences past the mark of where she meant to get to, but she can keep confidence better than most. </p><p>Anders grumbles at that defensively, but he doesn’t actually defend it. Anders spends most of his time healing people, soothing hurts, and however rough his edges, causing pain isn’t something he takes pride in. His good heart is plain enough to read, even though he is rather sour sometimes — most of the time, maybe. </p><p>“And he did save your life,” she adds, causing Anders to grumble a little more. </p><p>“What does it matter if I apologize, he hates all mages.”</p><p>“Not all mages, I don’t think,” Merrill points out, pursing her lips because she knows Fenris doesn’t hate her, and definitely doesn’t hate Hawke. She doesn’t think he really hates Anders either. It’s rather hard to hate someone when you love the same things — and hard to hate people who have saved your life. </p><p>“Me, then, and Justice. <em> Abomination</em>, remember?” Anders grumbles on, as he leans himself up against her dining table with his face towards the fire. His hair glows with a bit of orange in the light, straw at harvest time, and his amber eyes burn with it. </p><p>Could anyone actually hate <em> Justice?,</em> she wonders. But he does call him that. It probably bothers Anders more than he lets on, Merrill thinks. It’s not a pretty thing to be called, she knows from experience. Anders has made a terrible choice, according to her lore as well as his, but he did it out of that same good heart; for the same reason she uses magic she shouldn’t — to heal. She watches the fire too, flickering and dancing away through the firewood Fenris has so kindly chopped for her. </p><p>“People are always afraid of things they don't understand,” she says. It’s generic advice, something she actually picked up, of all places, from Hawke. It's true, too, she knows from experience. </p><p>“How’s the kitten?” Anders asks suddenly, changing the subject and regaining some of his bounce. </p><p>“She's doing well,” Merrill can’t help but bounce up a little too, talking of kittens, “growing all the time!” </p><p>As if on cue, the little thing wanders out then, peaking her tawny head around the corner of her hallway and walking with light, scampering feet up towards her chair by the fire. She stops to sniff at Anders’ socks — which are worn and grey like everything he wears, Merrill notes, and tries to engage some mechanism in her mind that will allow her to make a real note about it later, on paper, so that she can buy some yarn and knit him some new ones. </p><p>“Hello,” Anders crouches down, murmuring and cooing as he lets the kitten sniff his knuckles and then rubs them up behind her ear, “what are we calling you now?” </p><p>“Messere Mittens is growing on me,” Merrill answers, smiling as she watches him plop down cross-legged on her floor, allowing the cat to clamber up onto his long, bent legs and dance about from knee to knee as he chases her with wriggling fingers. He smiles at the name, tutting and repeating it in an endeared mutter while he teases.</p><p>The kettle set out on the rod above her fire is boiling now, so Merril lifts herself up from her seat, warmed and relaxed but still tired, and begins organizing some leaves into the strainer of her teapot. </p><p>“Has Justice been giving you much more trouble lately, Anders?” she tries to make the allusion to what happened the last time he came over — leaving her home breathless and worried and without having said nearly enough about what’s been eating at him, his eyes dark and cheeks hollow — as indirectly as possible, while she pours water over the strainer and finds mugs. Sometimes, she’s noticed, people speak easier when you’re both up and doing things. Fenris chops her firewood while she tends her plants, Isabella likes to sit and doodle, Varric always talks over card games and Anders, Anders is sat on her floor playing with a kitten, and she’s never seen him look more at ease. </p><p>“He’s always giving me trouble,” Anders answers through a sigh, but a sigh with a bit of humour in it, and then he laughs — she can’t remember the last time she heard him laugh — as the kitten catches one of his fingers and he rewards her with an enthusiastic scratch under her fluffy little chin. “He’s flying high today, though.” </p><p>Phylactery maps and, since they managed to sneak in and out all those other documents too, fewer Templars ordered to come poking about the Alienage. Merrill can see why he would be, she’s glad of that too. Still, if he’s as fair a spirit as Anders says he is, he can’t be all happy. </p><p>“I imagine Justice would want you to come to dinner tomorrow so that you can apologize to Fenris and Hawke, too.” she pours them both mugs of tea and stoops over to pass Anders his. He sighs when he takes it, looking up at her with an unhappy glare, but the amber of his eyes glint with just a hint of approving blue.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oof it took me so long to write such a short chapter, sorry! I kept finding bits of this and then losing them again. Not much to say here today except for oh my word, does Merrill have some issues. Yes this chapter is mosty about the parallels between Anders and Fenis (again) but see if you can spot 'em all ;)</p><p>Anyway, I love Merrill so very much and can't wait to write more from her point of view in the future.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Isabella</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Merrill and Isabella cuddle. That's it that's the chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The knock at the door is loud, thudding, banged on low, below the funny little gargoyle that serves as a knocker, and it thumps into the main hall in a little coded ditty — </span>
  <em>
    <span>dah duh duh dah dah</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Unmistakably Varric. Isabella hears Oranna drop something in the kitchen, clanging and clattering and several “oh dear”s as the poor thing reacts to the knock, and she groans from her place on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fret, ‘Rana love, I’ll get it.” she calls in a sing-song voice that’s a bit more warbly than usual, heaving her legs up from where she’s hung them over the back of the couch and swaying her way up to her feet. Either they went through more wine than she thought last night, or she’s getting old; the after effects never used to muddy her head all day like this. She pads over, robe barely tied and hair still in a fluffed up crumple of curls all stuck to one side, and knocks twice in reply. Then she cracks the door open and cringes in the cold air that snakes through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric is at the door as expected, and he comes parcelled with Merrill, who is standing just beside him with her shoulders high and both hands gripping her silly wicker basket (the one that, no matter how many times Isabella has asked, she refuses to explain the trick to), smiling wide. Varric raises an eyebrow at her and smirks while she quickly pulls her robe about tighter — against the cold, he can smirk all he wants — and waves them both quickly inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not dressed.” Varric comments, half like a disapproving parent and half like an amused ex-lover, though he’s neither, and Isabella shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very early.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s four in the afternoon,” he comments next, eyebrow still raised while Isabella flops right back down into her comfy crevice in the couch cushions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Early,” she repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill is frowning a sad little apology of a frown, and then she starts up her sad little apology speech, saying “oh should we come back later? I just wanted to use the kitchen, if Orana wouldn’t mind, I’ve brought all the ingredients, and I won’t really need any help so I can just get straight to cooking and you can take your time getting ready and —” and on like that while Isabella smiles at her and pats the spot beside herself on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, sweet thing, but I don’t know if tonight is the night for it,” she sighs as Merrill drops down onto the couch beside her, frowning some more while Isabella wraps an arm over her shoulder. Isabella gives Merrill a comforting squeeze that’s more for her than it is for Merrill, and says, “it’s bad today, kitten.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric leans against a low chair across from them, his hands automatically flicking into a scratching gesture as Hawke’s great big beast of a Mabari comes obediently up beside him, and he sighs too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think she’ll see me?” he suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill is still frowning into her side, a lump of sweet worry and squeezable shoulders, saying “how bad?” with a voice so fraught with concern that Isabella decides that maybe she should just squeeze those shoulders a little bit tighter, while she shrugs, to answer them both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric gives her another one of those looks, this one father figure or very old friend, and he's still neither, but she huffs anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Got to drinking last night, talking," she explains, feeling both like a fool teenager and irresponsible parent, "she was fine at first, funny. The stories! Thought it was doing her some good. But this Antivan wine you know, it has a bloody awful aftertaste." She rubs her temple for emphasis, though in actuality that quick burst of cold air and Varric's first look had shaken out the last of the fog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric sighs, a disappointed sound, but he's probably just reevaluating his strategy, wondering what his plan should be if she already tried wine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merril is still frowning, her brows poking inward while she parses the figures of speech, "did she get sick?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only with grief, kitten." Isabella says, and Merrill nods with sad understanding; it's not the first time.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric is ruffling the fur between the Mabari's ears, and it, at least, looks entirely content. Varric's mouth is an unhappy line. “Will she see me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isabella shrugs again, and her shoulder bares itself out of the robe as it rubs up and down over the soft fabric of Merrill's shawl. "I don’t know if she’ll open her eyes for you, if that’s what you mean, but you can go on up." she says, "not sure what good it will do. She hasn’t listened to much other than her own moaning for hours now. Orana’s making tea again." As if on cue, another clattering and an "oh dear" comes from the kitchen, and Merrill sits back up. Orana tiptoes out with her tea set, cups and saucers, sugar and milk, all wobbling unsteadily on her tray. Isabella nudges herself out from her cocoon with Merrill to stand up and help her set it all down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric shrugs too, “dead siblings, dead parents, all the lofty expectations of your house falling at your irresponsible feet -- I know a thing or two about all that.” he remarks, and there’s a growl to his voice  that holds more sentiment than Isabella thinks he means for it to. “Let me take a crack at her.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anyone has a chance, she thinks, it's probably Varric. So she waves her hand towards the stairs in a welcoming gesture, and Varric stomps off in quiet determination to get his friend — her lover — to come out of her rumpled pile of misery and join them all for dinner.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm afraid I'm really no good at this, you know." Isabella leans back with a sigh as soon as he's gone, letting the uncomfortable guilt spread a little deeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean?" Merrill takes one of the teacups that Orana set out, sips at it, and then makes a very polite face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Helping or comforting or...whatever it is people are supposed to do for the bereaved." Isabella shakes her head, "when my husband died I went skipping right down to the docks, took his ship and never looked back. I suppose it’s different when death comes for someone you love." She sighs, hesitating and shaking her head with stiff sadness one more time, "or everyone you love." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hawke has lots of people who love her still." Merrill corrects her with a brightness that is almost grave, it's so serious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know that." Isabella smirks a little at her gravely serious insistence, "not always sure she does."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well that’s why we’re here. To show her." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for always bringing the sunshine, kitten." she almost laughs, this time, Merrill is so earnest. "It’s been grey and lonely in here lately."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grey and lonely all over Kirkwall, right now." Merrill agrees, shaking that full little head of hers. Isabella thinks that she knows too much, that it would have been better to let that pretty head rest and think happy thoughts about rainbows and flowers all day, but that isn't Merrill's way. And anyway, there always would have been a hidden sadness there. All lost girls have one; even the unstoppable ones. Even Hawke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She’s been doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>, running jobs for the Viscount. I thought the wine might be fun, you know, a bit of Antiva, a bit of warmth." Isabella is making excuses, even though Hawke is an adult and a lush on the best days, without any need of any aid from her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sounds lovely." Merrill does not seem to realise that she is just making flimsy excuses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Getting drunk always helps </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> when I’m sad…" she grumbles on, and Merrill's face falls when she gets it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It’s not your fault. Hawke has a lot of things to be… well. A lot seems to go wrong in her life." She gently pats Isabella's knee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can say that again." Isabella mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A lot seems to go wrong in her life?" Merril says expectantly, knowing not to take her literally but doing it anyway because she also knows it will make her laugh — which she does, too much maybe, and only more when she’s hit with Merrill’s attempt at a wink. More of a blink with extra squinting on one side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh kitten, I missed this." She shakes her head through her laughter, fluffy tangle of hair bouncing into her eyes, "you should come over more often." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can come over too, you know." Merrill suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a while since she swung by the Alienage. The last time was… right before they found Leandra, when Hawke was still a wreck with worry, but not with guilt and grief. Templars had interrupted the dinner, and two nights later she was slipping herself into bed with Hawke, wrapping herself up around her curled up limbs, all that tall, muscular perfection a heap of sobs and panicked breathing until morning. She hasn't left the house much since. Now, Isabella thinks about going over to Merrill's, and instead of a warm fire and the delicate scent of drying flowers, she pictures cold steel and stomping boots and the iron tinge of blood in the air. She shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I feel… wrong, somehow." she shrugs off the unpleasantness, because none of it is about her, "leaving her alone in here. And she wouldn’t come with, not unless you have some giant spiders to kill or mages to track down or something." Hawke has only left the estate lately to kill things, and kill things she has, with exceptional skill and impressively bloody finesse. Isabella doesn't always join in, but when Hawke goes off to get bloodied, she usually just hops over to the docks and tries to take a nap on her still unmanned boat. She misses the rocking of waves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We might have giant spiders and mages. Not at my house though! That would be ridiculous. But, Anders stole these maps from the Templars,” Merrill begins excitedly, but she’s got this telltale little twitch she gives her eyebrows over Anders’ name, which is wonderfully funny again; Merrill, protecting her. Isabella laughs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and I… I told him he should come tonight. He’s very sorry, I know he is.” Merrill shifts her weight slightly off of hers, and Isabella resists the urge to pull the poor nervous thing back in. She leans back, stretching her neck out and rolling her shoulders with a sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he can say so himself then he’s more than welcome in my books, but it’s Hawke he’ll need to convince.” As far as Isabella is concerned, the thing with Anders may as well be over. It was just a little thing, really, in the grand scheme of it all. But nothing is ever just little with Hawke, or with Anders for that matter. She sort of loves that about them both; the drama. But they ought to get back to loving each other, the act’s better that way.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t still mad?” Merrill interrupts her waxing over it with another twitch in her eyebrow and a frown that somehow, in all her infinite capacity for it, she’s managed to make hopeful. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Isabella can’t stop laughing at it all. She’s starting to feel mean for it, but it’s not a mean laugh. She’s just missed this — petty drama, Merrill playing overly concerned peacemaker, Anders doing something rebellious. She hopes that he apologizes, she misses him too. “That he called me a whore? Kitten, I am one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bells!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, I suppose not a whore, that’s a true profession, and I swore never to get myself one of those. Harlot’s better. Or, oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>jezebel</span>
  </em>
  <span> feels lovely on the tongue.'' She winks at Merrill now, and hers is very practiced and elegant — she’s rather proud of her wink, actually, a flutter of lashes and a little bounce of shoulder, springing her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill blushes and giggles and Isabella drapes her arm back around her, loose over Merrill’s shoulder, still leaned back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s shameful is his insecurity,” she finishes, and Merrill nods with understanding. Merrill’s good like that, not particularly judgmental. Isabella supposes that she can’t be, what with her being a blood mage and all. And she’s not exactly prudish about sex, just blushy and giggly, which is fun. She laughs at every lewd joke, and she thinks Varric’s dime novels of romantic purple prose are </span>
  <em>
    <span>fantastic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Isabella takes credit for about half the sex in those. But it’s all very wholesome and tame, her and Merrill; she figured out Merrill’s limits early on, and sticks within them. It’s nice, after so many years with sailors — good company but rowdy, fuckable at need and respectful on pain of death, but not very conversational — to have someone who is soft and cuddly and just a friend. Well, maybe some days she has a bit of a crush, but Merrill’s all sweetness and patience, no drama. And so help her troubled soul, Isabella craves a bit of drama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So help her selfish loins, she craves Hawke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawke and Anders have drama, and some of it is her fault, since she’s slept with both of them and that’s part of it. The other part is that they used to sleep with each other, and sweet Andraste, she thinks, is her friend group incestuous. (She’s slept with Fenris too, and if Fenris knows what’s good for him, any day now he’ll finally start sleeping with Anders.) None of it really bothers her, she’s never seen the point in lovers’ quarrels where the solution is just to get a bigger bed, or move on. She slept with Anders before either of them ever met Hawke, and Anders and Hawke got through their whole affair before she’d really caught more than an eyeful of Hawke in the city — a good eyeful though, she still remembers it; flashy smile and all that hair — so she doesn’t quite see why everyone can’t just get along. Two passionate firestarters, is the problem; Anders being a man, territorial over things that have never been his, and Hawke being… well, in love with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's all very new, and very dramatic, but not the kind she likes. Love leaves her vulnerable and shaking with heart-stopping care. Maker, she hates seeing the world hurt Hawke, but it just keeps coming. She sighs without meaning to, mulling it all over. Now would be a good time to resolve the petty drama, and buy a really big bed, she thinks. Merrill leans her head back into her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I hope he does apologize. Hawke could use another friend right now, and those two always shared a particular brand of crazy." she says. And she hopes Hawke isn't too off kilter with her grieving to let the whole thing go if he does; so far, it's been rough waters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you doing, Bella? I feel like no one ever asked you.” Merrill turns the question to her softly, “you must have known her a bit better than the rest of us…" Leandra. Isabella frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d spent a while nosing around the estate and sneaking out in the night from Hawke's room, then they’d begun living a little more boldly —  falling a little too steeply — in the months after that. She'd all but moved in when this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> between her and Hawke started to feel like… drowning, drowning and sinking and soaring and floating, all at once. It had taken just a few hushed words, the most breathtakingly passionate night of her life, and then she was hers, surely and utterly for as long as they could manage it. She'd tried not to have high hopes, but she hadn't prepared to have her happiness unseated by serial-killing, mother-murdering blood mages right off the bat. She's been in love probably a year, and known it for maybe half; they said the words, falling into it proper, and then had a two months of rich-living madness with it before… before this, three weeks ago. Cold and grey and lonely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A bit, but I’m no stranger to death," she answers Merrill's question with a shrug. Leandra was a good woman, strong and proud. Isabella liked her, though she wasn't sure the feeling ran in reverse. But if Isabella had known her better, it really was only by a bit. Of all those that Hawke had liked to host at her weekly celebrations after gaining the estate, Leandra had liked Fenris best. "Mostly I’m just bored. Does that make me a terrible person?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Getting bored? No, I don’t think so. I get bored several times a day, sometimes while I’m in the middle of doing something, which can be a bit terrible if I forget to go back to it but...no." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isabella chuckles. Merrill looks like she's thinking hard about what more to say, but she always says more than she has to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don’t think it’s crass?" Isabella continues, "I do miss her. I don’t think she liked me much but her cooking was a sight better than Orana’s. And she liked to see Hawke happy, you know? You could tell from the way she smiled seeing Hawke laugh at one of my poor jokes." Isabella says with a sad smile, "she was glad her last remaining child was happy, even if it wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned. I have to wonder though, if I was more like what Leandra wanted for her then maybe Hawke wouldn’t be so…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops, comfortable with Merrill and in love with Hawke or not, some feelings just shouldn't be said aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well you can’t blame Hawke for falling in love with you" Merrill says, anyway. She knows all about it, having listened starry-eyed to many of Isabella's less-vulnerable renditions of the tale of their descent into a torrid love affair. She filled in the vulnerable bits on her own, she's good at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh can’t I?" She's been sighing too much this conversation, so she pushes for a laugh, "I did tell her in no uncertain terms not to." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're both mostly terrible at it. Hawke's got a history that's not quite as storied as hers is, but she certainly tried her best. Theres a lot of fumbling for words and bickering and sex, and they fight together like a storm, Hawke with lightning and Bella with knives that might as well be. It was exciting and fun and gave her the kind of adrenaline rush that she thought she could keep running with forever, but now she thinks Hawke might be better off mending her heart with someone else. She's not good with the slow parts. Hawke wouldbe better off with someone kind who won’t get bored of her staying in bed for days with grief. Someone strong and good and able to devote their whole heart, while hers is still half in the ocean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She loves you, and you love her." Merrill reiterates, and the emphasis she gives it is supposed to tell Isabella that that's good enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like I love the sea, kitten."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, she does. Violent, cruel mistress that she is. Temperamental and beautiful, deep and infinite and terrifying, exhilarating, endlessly foreign and yet somehow home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sea, Madeline Hawke; same thing, really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d take care of her, wouldn’t you?” Isabella says suddenly, a sharp thought interrupting her lovestruck thoughts. The Qunari are getting uppity, the Viscount is asking Hawke to follow up on behalf of the city more and more. Better to have her ship in order, and Hawke does so adore Merrill. “If something were to...happen, or if I were to go away…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t going somewhere, are you?” Merrill starts like she might slap her, or cry, if she says yes. Maybe both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not any time soon, if I can help it,” Isabella walks the idea back, “but one never knows when one might hit rough waters and be stymied by a delay…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Merrill looks somewhat relieved, but still too worried, “are you getting your ship ready to work again? That’s exciting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could have the ship up and running today, if she wanted to. It’s been repaired and she has the funds for a crew, thanks in no small part to Hawke, but she isn’t sure how to do it — she </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> say goodbye, can’t. But she’ll have to do something, soon, and whatever way she does it it’s probably going to hurt Hawke all over again, so she has been putting it off.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. Might have to see to some quick business. I’d come right back you know, but if for some reason I ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” she tries one more time to tell Merrill, then changes her mind.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What aren’t you telling me?” Merrill’s look is shrewd, and Isabella gives up. She’ll figure something else out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A great many things, Kitten, most of them too vulgar for your sweet ears.” she brushes the conversation aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mock me, Bella.” oh, but her Keeper voice works on Isabella in all sorts of ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright.” She should be more honest with Merrill, she does deserve it, but she’s never not taken care of her own problems, and right now Merrill has enough troubles to help figure out. “There’s nothing to worry about, I just like to have things organized in case of emergencies. Batten down the hatches, make sure everything is ship-shape and copper-bottomed, so to speak.” she winks again over the silly idioms, breezing away.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s very responsible.” Merrill says, still trying to be stern, but she giggles through it, cute lips twitching against her defences into a stifled smile. Isabella tugs her closer in to lend emphasis to the comforting words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You forget I’m a captain. Don't worry about me.” Isabella mutters, a little more seriously than she means to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill will. She worries about every frowning face that so much as crosses her periphery, and she shouldn't, but she will. Isabella would squeeze all the tension of trying to care so hard right out of her slight shoulders, if she had the time. On a better day, she'd probably suggest a litany of other fun ideas too, mostly to make Merrill blush. Maybe her own shoulders could take some care…  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has a crush again today; blame the cold and grey and lonely. Maybe when Hawke is better, she starts to think, and then stops at when. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a new bit of hopeful — and not one found in the bottle. When Hawke is feeling better, she’s going to have to have a serious talk with her about just how much they both adore Merrill.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s your kitten, kitten?” she asks, eager to change the subject and aware that she probably shouldn’t make any innuendos over the phrase she just uttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill brightens at the mention of it, bouncing back into good energy, the kind she should have. “Oh, she’s well!” she says, “I’ve settled on Messere Mittens, I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isabella crinkles her nose. “Fenris’ name?” she objects, “what was wrong with Nutmeg?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Verric told me where you got the name,” Merrill scolds. Isabella chuckles, making a mental note to withhold names from any future stories she lends him for his dime novels. At least she didn’t go with</span>
  <em>
    <span> his</span>
  </em>
  <span> choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she still frightened of people, or is she warming up to your clients?” Merrill hates it when Isabella uses that word for her students and advice-seekers, she seems to think the good feeling in her heart and the shine of a smile are the best kinds of payment in the world, while Isabella and Varric have been trying to convince her that, actually, it’s gold, without any luck for </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t like strangers, but she loves Fenris now. And Anders — he befriended her right away.” Merrill answers. Isabella remembers when she found the thing; she was one of the first people to see it, eyes barely open and fur all bedraggled. She frowns. She really should swing by Merrill’s again soon. She can’t have Fenris winning the favourite spot in Merrill’s house too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come over later this week, we can drink the rest of the Antivan wine and play with your kitten, promise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrill smiles, and Isabella wishes that she would catch the innuendo, because it would be more fun if she blushed. Then, perhaps because the look in her eye has more of her sultry little crush in it than usual, Merrill blushes anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good!” She says, with slightly too much squeak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Merrill hops to it, still wanting to cook. She's allowing Isabella to leave now, to go get ready, which is Merrill for shooing. It would be unkind if she knew she was doing it. But what she's really doing is being just like that kitten: a little lonely, lost thing; a little afraid to be touched for too long, bouncy with innocent energy but, like all of Hawke’s rough-edged scraps of family, a stray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Hawke feels better, they’re going to have to have a very serious talk about how much they both adore Merrill. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>OKAY. ISABELLA. Going off in the notes time! The thing I got into with Isabella is that I think she's like, hyper-empathetic and a little bit in love with all her friends. And I wanted to write that in the most honest, caring way I could, because I know she can be written off for her promescuity or whatever, which is lame. But I wanted to show a sex-positive take on an Isabella who is unashamed of her affairs, and kind of hypersexual, and all of those things, and to let that be a big part of her character without it being her whole character and just. I don't know. This character has multitudes, man. I think she's about as insightful as Merrill, possibly more so, at least where romantic intentions are concerned, but reserved in different ways. I think she's also super healthy about her casual sex and super scared of love, like all of these broken idiots. She has fun and she loves to sleep around and she knows her worth and she's got no time for disrespect but also, she's always taken care of herself. She makes bad decisions and she's not great at being responsible, and it hurts her because she DOES care. </p><p>Anyway. I love Isabella, this chapter made me gay. Hawke is taking a bit more shape now and uh. Sorry Hawke. Forever regretting starting this fic in Act II when apparently a lot of things happened in Act I but there will be flashbacks to explain the Anders...situation. Welcome to Disaster Bisexuals 2.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Hawke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dinner at Hawke's. Two depressed mages need to hug each other.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I was promised more alcohol, and that no one would ask me how I am,” she says from the top of the stairs, overseeing the foyer of the estate that is all alight with wide, concerned eyes. Mostly Merrill’s, but Isabella’s have some of that teary light in them that she tries so hard to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s done her best to make herself presentable. All her disastrous hair piled high into a messy knot at the top of her head, something vaguely more clothing-like than the monogrammed robe she’s been living in lately hugging uncomfortably tight around her hips — brown leggings and an old tunic and a very wide scarf that’s practically a blanket, but if she calls it a scarf she can wear it down to dinner, so she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Varric follows behind her, and from the understanding look that crosses Isabella’s face and the quizzical one on Merrill’s, she’s sure he’s just mimed a series of informative hand-signs down at them, like he’s waving on cart traffic at a thoroughfare and not saying anything particularly nice about the carts. “She’s going to run you over,” probably, “look out!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t bother to throw him a look, and ignores the ones on the faces before her as she descends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing Antivan, then.” Isabella says. She rubs her own temples to make it seem like she’s the one who can’t tolerate the stuff, and Hawke loves her for that. She wishes she could say so; she </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell Isabella how much it means to have her covering for her, but she made Varric promise that no one would ask her how she’s feeling for a reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s some old Ferelden port in the cellar,” she suggests. Before she can finish describing the bottle Merrill springs to attention and calls out “I’ll get it!”, and hops away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then a knock smacks at the door, the clang of metal on hard wood, and the creak of old Rusty the gremlin as he rattles back into place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is everyone so </span>
  <em>
    <span>early</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Isabella moans. She’s still in one of the monogrammed robes. It looks amazing on her, or it would if Hawke had any capacity for appreciating exposed skin at the moment — because that’s mostly what it does for her. The thing barely covers her gratuitous thighs and always seems to slip tastefully off her shoulders without prompting. And her hair is worse than Hawke’s, still in a tangle from laying about all day. It shouldn’t make her feel better, to not be the most dishevelled member of their current party, but it does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maker, get dressed,” she scolds, using all the humorous energy Varric imbued her with to tease the woman, and feeling it begin to drain out of her as she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isabella tilts to knock out one hip, a hand nudging the robe to expose just a touch more thigh as she does, and winks at her. A little bit more energy floats up to her through the air with it. Then she struts up the stairs, exaggerated sway and a whole lot of springy hair-bounce, even if it’s uneven, and plants a kiss on Hawke’s cheek as she passes her by. The sensation spreads slowly through her cheek, the warmth very almost getting in. She should tell her, but she’s too numb and slow to react in time, and then Isabella disappears into the bedroom, and Rusty is still complaining that someone is at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll be Blondie,” Varric says. Hawke thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>great,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and grits her teeth, “I’d better go help Merrill,” Varric adds in a hurry, and then he shuffles away too, the traitor. But he’s right to, this is a conversation she should probably have with Anders alone, if only for safety reasons. She’s too tired for shouting though, she thinks. Assuming the worst will happen, she decides that if he says anything uppity she’ll just force-smash him back out the door again. Nail, coffin. She winces at her own thought. Bad metaphor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders is not uppity at the door, he is instead somewhat hunched and damp, flakes of snow melting into his feather pauldrons, dripping off the reddened beak of a nose. The sight of her seems to register as mild fear in his eyes. Chicken, she thinks, accidentally aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Birdbrain,” he says back, which despite being an insult is actually a good sign. She should have expected as much. He's seen enough death to know it needs a good bedside manner, and knows her well enough to remember that for her that means insults, alcohol, and not asking questions. He steps inside, wipes his feet on the mat in the entryway, shakes out his feathers and flicks some of the wet from his hair, all without meeting her eye. Hawke stands back, arms crossed, doing her best to look grumpy and expectant because the last time they spoke they left it a fight, and Hawke is nothing if not stubborn, but her face won’t quite make the right shapes. Her mouth is too sad, her eyes too dull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought wine,” Anders says. He digs in his coat for the bottle, and holds it out like an olive branch. It’s Antivan; Hawke makes a face. “And you've already tried that,” he notes the face as she takes the bottle, and runs a hand through his damp locks again. “Can I just say I'm an idiot and leave it at that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawke is still doing her very best to be stubborn and smirking and sharp. “You could,” she says, “but you should try telling me something I don't already know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders sighs, but there’s almost a smile in it. Insults are a good sign, they both know it well enough by now. “Hawke,” he looks her in the eye but he doesn’t call her Mads, or even Maddie. “I was just angry. Not at you, just at everything, you know?” It’s not really an apology, but it says enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your girlfriend’s not a whore,” he continues, kind of flippant, kind of guilty, and back to not looking directly at her, “and I'm not jealous. Lonely, maybe.” Then he looks again, and Hawke’s stared deep into those amber eyes enough times to read them, and, Maker, he is. “I want my friend back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s almost a smile on her lips, and her heart is almost certainly a degree or two warmer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure she is, so am I, and so are you.” she answers, which gets her half of one from him. I love you both, she doesn't say, but then Anders is reading her eyes too, and he lets out a thin laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard you stole some maps,” she turns to bring him into the house, and he shuts away the cold wind of the street behind him, following her to where there’s plush upholstery and deep red carpets and fire. She places the bottle on the coffee table and falls into the seat that still bears Isabella’s faint warmth. Anders leans across from her, where Varric was, and the dog ambles up to sniff at him in disappointment; he probably smells like darktown and cats, and Thief is no fan of either. “When do we strike?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders looks up from the dog’s head back to hers in slight surprise, and there’s the light of Justice in his eyes, the crackle of him in the air. Justice never liked her, probably because its opposite seems to stick to her coattails like so much prickly nettle, but it's a smile in the air right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> I want to help. Maker, it's been too long since I smashed something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you and Varric just smash in some Qunari heads for the Viscount last week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something that deserved it.” There’s too much bitterness in her tone, and now that he’s flashed to the surface, too much Justice in the air. Anders is looking around the living room, back to not looking directly at her. His eyes land on the empty wall over the fireplace where </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>portrait used to be, and the cups of undrunk tea left by Orana, the pages of unanswered letters on the writing desk, the blankets from the bedroom left in heaps on living room chairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” he still hasn’t really apologized, and he’s still trying to, but he’s no better at it than she is, and she mostly wishes he’d stop. “I should have come over earlier. Can things between us just go back to how they were? This city is shit, any bit of happiness you can find, you should hold onto.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at him, really takes in how much of that hunch and pallor isn’t winter-damp or cold cheeks, how his eyes are dark even with Justice burning through, and the circles under them are even purpler than hers. This time, not being the most disheveled presence in the room isn’t a comfort at all; she misses her friend, and she hates how the city tears everything to shreds. Shreds. Bad metaphor. She winces against her own thought again, and stands up without thinking any further. Then Anders is at her shoulders, arms tight around her back and chin poking at her rebellious hair. She squeezes into him, still blank but better, and breathes out, choking on the breath as it leaves her. She doesn’t want to cry, so she lets go sooner than is probably good for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let's get on with it,” she says. “Sebastian and Avaline will be here soon.” Anders rolls his eyes and Hawke shoots him a warning look that is as close as she can get it to being playful. “Be nice.” she says, “and no punching Fenris either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anders pretends to balk, “only if he doesn't punch me first.” he protests, but he settles down into a chair near the fire, and the glow lights up his eyes and adds colour to his cheeks and they’re both being about as close to playful as they can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, on cue, Rusty clanks against the door, and Varric and Merrill saunter in noisily with bottles and tiny glasses, and Isabella glides down the stairs wearing perfect clothes and perfect hair and gracing Hawke’s cheek with a perfect kiss before she floats away to answer it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone brings something. Avaline has cheese, which is very Ferelden and very thoughtful, and Sebastian brought candles that Hawke really hopes he stole from the Chantry, though she doubts it, as well as bread, which is somehow very Andrastian, but still thoughtful. And Fenris, coming in just a bit behind them, brings yet another bottle of Antivan wine. He has cellars of the stuff, though Hawke notes that he’s picked out one that is particularly old and expensive, which is tempting enough that she begins to rethink her swearing off of the stuff, and sets it out on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The estate fills with conversation. Varric spins a story, Merrill and Orana are laughing in the kitchen; clanging of pots and shrieks when something else drops, but all the commotion leads to a scent that drifts out warm and rich into the air. Isabella snuggles into her on the couch, shameless and warm and laughing too loud at Varric's jokes because she is trying to get it to rub off on her, and even though little more than a chuckle leaves her throat, somewhere deep and buried under the cold earth in Hawke’s heart, it does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Avaline bickers with Anders and Varric’s stories offend Sebastian, but with wine on the table and spices in the air, it all ends up in laughter. And each new note from each new voice floats over to Hawke, prying off some of the dark and dust until she begins to feel a little less alone, a little less cold, a little less afraid, and more at home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'M SORRY THIS CHAPTER TOOK A MILLION YEARS. And then became probably the shortest one I've written? But the good news is I've figured some stuff out (and also started a new Anders-centric fic in the meantime, what can I say? I've caught a bug.) </p><p>Here we finally see our broken down hero. As usual, trying to focus on the relationships and mentalities and slow-moving character changes that are happening throughout this story. I mentioned before how Anders has a lot of kind of toxic traits that are sympathetic but need deeper exploration, and that's kind of coming into play here. Hawke does too, so we'll be getting into that, but I wanted to deal with the way Anders was written as like, jealous and lashing out and kind of a shitty friend to a Hawke that romances Isabella specifically, because in my game it always rubbed me the wrong way. But rather than saying oh, that's ooc and writing it away, I'd rather we deal with this complicated messy friendship like adults. So here we have a couple old friends with a lot of baggage between them acknowledging that the best way they know how.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Justice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hopping back into the Anders brain and going for a bit of a swim. Did I decide to characterize Justice as semi-omniscient and bad at reckoning with time just so that I could do character analysis flashbacks? No, but it definitely helps. </p><p>CW: blood and gore mentions, alcohol, musing on some unhealthy relationship histories.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Madeline Hawke. Mad Maddie, or sometimes just Mads. A nickname she’s had since before she knew them, but one she’s only grown into. She embodied it when they first met — a madness that broke like crashing waves against the ragged shores of Anders’ own. Fierce, unstoppable, angry. Washing up like so much debris with the rest of the refugees from Ferelden’s blight, crashing straight into the stone of Kirkwall with nothing but an angry brother and a big honking blade at the end of her poorly disguised staff. She fell into a bed in Anders’ clinic — bleeding, and half covered in blood that wasn’t her own — on her second day in the city. She fell into Anders’ bed, naked and howling and laughing for the thrill of it, on the third. He’s loved her since the moment he laid his amber eyes on her bright blues; most people do. </p><p>But loving Hawke was madness, at least the way he did it. Clawing and needy and arguing around in circles. They agreed on everything, but somehow never saw eye to eye. Anders couldn’t figure her out, couldn’t seem to understand why everything he wanted in a woman was such a terrible comfort. He still hasn’t figured her out, really, but Justice has. Justice knows what Hawke is, because she is exactly like Anders. She is sharp and uncomfortable and angry in all the same ways. She first looked to Anders when she was cracked open and raw and bleeding, seeing him as everything she’d lost in a father figure, everything she wanted in a rebellious lover, everything she needed in a freedom fighter, but he was just the same broken down and lost child that she was. He saw her in much the same light, up on a pedestal he made her, angry when all she would do was laugh and jump down. Hurts follow Hawke around, injustices throw themselves at her feet and, remarkably, she fixes them. She is a marvel and a beauty and, as Varric likes to say, batshit crazy. She’s Anders’ best friend, and even Justice still loves her, complicated though she is. </p><p>Justice remembers the pain of their ending perfectly, and it grates a little every time he looks at her. All told, it lasted less than a year, but both of them have eager, desperate hearts, and sank into love with sharp teeth. Then it became struggles with honesty, and abrasive, rocky conversations until it was shouting and tears. Eventually, the fire did what fire does best, and the whole ideal of her burned down, pedestal and all. </p><p>They left it on bold lines traded like a scene in one of Varric's novels, and it had hurt more to be heartbroken than Justice would have ever guessed from the way bard songs made it sound.</p><p><em> "You're exhausting! You have no fucking patience! Do you realise how hard it is to talk to you, to make you happy when you get like this?" </em> She'd been right, and very wrong. Anders has the patience of a healer and careful apostate, and the drive of a Warden, but Justice is less patient and less vulnerable to empty words than any man, and Anders has always had a spark in him that leads to rashness. So does Hawke, and she knew it then as well as she does now, which is why she so quickly resorts to shouting. Why they both do. It was, in her defense, exhausting. </p><p><em> "Nobody is making you, Hawke! You don't have to do any of it." </em>And that had always been where Anders got stuck. Other people deserve care without question, but for himself Anders always questions. Justice has yet to find anything he can do about that. </p><p><em> "But I fucking love you, Anders." </em>She had said, and meant it. </p><p><em> "You don't have to do that either." </em>So had he. </p><p>
  <em> "You're right. I don't."  </em>
</p><p>She took that last bit back, later. Told Anders she couldn’t afford to lose access to the city’s only free healer (though she could afford it now), and also told him in no uncertain terms that her love would be lifelong and unfailing, if he could tolerate it. She doesn’t let people go, that madwoman Hawke. She hasn’t let Carver go, even after four years her eyes have never been as bright as they were before she left for those dark paths underground. Justice wonders what they were like, her eyes, before the blight swept up her old life. Bluer and brighter than the fire he burns through Anders, he’d guess; hers is a spirit the world has been failing to temper for too long.</p><p>Batshit crazy, that’s what Varric says. The two are so inseparable that it’s easy to think that Varric was her first friend in her new life, that the nickname came from him like all the others do. But he wasn’t, and it didn’t, he’s just a very astute dwarf. (Most dwarves don’t see down to the root of things like Varric does.) And she is. </p><p>For his part, Anders was uncomfortable with her continuing love for him for all of a few days. Mostly he’d thought it might be awkward, running around with her and her ragtag team of strange friends while still remembering what she looked like naked. But then on the first excursion she brought him out on, they travelled to the storm coast, and in the early morning she stripped herself naked and ran straight into the icy sea, goading the rest of them to join in. Isabella did, not one to be outdone in matters of saltwater and seaworthiness, while he had stood on the coast, shaking his head and laughing. It remains, actually, the only time he can remember being on the same side of an opinion with Fenris: Hawke is batshit crazy. They had both laughed until tears fell from their eyes, Merrill fretting and wringing her hands beside them, and then Hawke had rushed back to shore bright red and shivering and grinning from ear to ear, and if there was supposed to be awkwardness in the transition from lovers to friends, she erased it right then and there. In fact, being friends with Hawke was much easier, and for a while both he and Justice were as close to happy with the situation as they ever are with anything. </p><p>Since then, circumstances have thrown dense, thick space between them. Air of tension and grief.</p><p>Karl. He hadn’t told Hawke about him, and then suddenly he’d had to, and Hawke helped without question, and everything (as it always does) ended in tragedy. Anders won’t even let Justice in to see memories of him, but Justice can recall what became of him any time he likes with more clarity than Anders has, and he keeps that memory separate from him as a mercy, and never looks in on it himself. </p><p>Carver. The only member of her party that didn’t return from the deep roads. Anders wasn’t there, didn’t see it happen; Varric thought he was finding a Warden with maps, but really he only brought her to an ex lover she was still recovering from leaving. Anders had passed on the maps and declined to go back to the roads, and that had seemed a very fine choice at the time. Neither of them wished to be locked underground together. Maybe if he had been there — but he doesn’t know. Maybe he could have helped, but he doesn’t know. Wardens aren’t affected by the taint, but he doesn’t know the ritual for a Joining. Perhaps he could have found someone who did, in the right part of the roads. No telling what kind of time they might have had. Or if Carver would have survived it. Not his fault, and Justice has told him as much — repeatedly — but the thoughts still eat at him; secrets he can’t tell Hawke for more reasons than just a Warden’s oath. Reasons he can’t be with her, even if he still wanted to be; reasons he can’t let her go, either. </p><p>And then, Isabella. Anders would like to think of himself as an open, forward thinking kind of man, but he said some things about Isabella's promiscuity and called into question what it meant about her ability to commit that were dripping with jilted, jealous, judgment. Not his finest moment, given the threads of their friendship were twisted and frayed as it was. A stupid, selfish thing, jealousy. Anders has always been full of it, even if he knows better. Justice understands; admires his passion and sometimes even adds fuel to his dark thoughts. Too many people have left him, abused him, neglected him, and taken him for granted. Too many people in this world offer only disrespect and misunderstanding. It makes perfect sense for him to be angry, jealous, and scared. Sometimes Justice isn’t sure if it’s wrong, to twist with Anders’ loneliness. And Anders and Hawke still have that key bit of madness in common: neither one is any good at letting things go. He’d just been lonely. Certain he was going to die alone in the gutter of Darktown, unfinished manuscript a messy scrawl of smudged ink across muddy, bloody floors. Afraid that there would never be any change, any light again, and he’d taken that out on the one person who’d promised to always love him.</p><p>She'd fallen in love with Isabella; a messy rebel with a colourful past and trust issues, not unlike himself, but somehow they were making one another happy while the rest of the city went to shit, and it didn’t seem fair. Her eyes were brightening up again, despite all the losses, and her healing had nothing to do with him. It was only that she was healing in the face of a healer who couldn’t help himself. It was only that she was safe to yell insults at, tough enough to take them and so much better than him that it was a fight he’d been certain to lose. A fight, maybe, that he’d thrown himself into with the intent of losing, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. But maybe things do change, even as the losses pile up and the injustices burn on; she forgave him with sad eyes and a tight hug and so much more tiredness in her shoulders than she used to wear. Once, she’d have held onto words like the ones they threw at each other a few weeks ago for another month, at least. Now they’re both lonely, and closer than they’ve been in years. He’s out there telling her about his plans to cause a great, glorious problem for the Templars that grow more corrupt each day, and she’s listening with eager, bright eyes and adding in wild, dangerous ideas with a spark Justice has dearly missed. </p><p>Her whole house is sad and burns with uncomfortable static. What has happened to Leandra Hawke should never happen to anyone, and Justice is half caught up in it even as Anders brings her cheer through the promise of doing something useful. Justice can feel the loneliness and grief radiating out of the walls in Hawke’s estate, and he’s prodding at Anders a bit for not wrapping up his argument with her over <em> sex </em> sooner — patient with him as Justice is, understanding of his fear and loneliness as no one else could be, Justice still sometimes has to set himself in the role of scolding voice to Anders’ other inner monologues. Hawke loves him, and he loves Hawke, and for that matter Justice has found value in all these other people filling up this estate and working to add warmth to its walls, too. They fight with her, after all. They catch murderers and help stray mages and fight for freedom at her call, so whether Anders remembers it or not, they can all be counted as friends. Justice tries to acquiesce to Anders’ push on him to calm, despite the burning static. The spirits in Hawke’s house will settle in time, there is no more injustice left to remedy here. </p><p>Justice silently observes the rest of it. Merrill is laughing in the kitchen with Orana, and the timid elf is less timid today than she was the last time he came over. Fenris is locked in a serious discussion with Sebastian, and both of them radiate a clean kind of goodwill that Anders never really gives them credit for. Varric, the astute dwarf, has determined that he should keep himself between Anders and Avaline, ready with a joke to fend off Anders’ scowls — which are deserved, but this is Dinner at Hawke’s, and when Hawke instated those she did it to treat the homesickness of Merrill, who was missing something sacred. So dinners at Hawke’s are sacred, as far as Justice is concerned, and Anders has been staying away from the betterment they offer him for too long.</p><p>Justice can't seem to keep his observations off of Hawke, even as she leaves Anders to make her rounds as host and fill (and refill) her too-large glass of wine. She finds Fenris, across the room, and shares a laugh that seems too strained with a quick pat on his shoulder; both straining. Fenris has a heavy weight on a room, too, but he is more solid, and still less angry than the last time Anders saw him, when he was poised for a fight after saving Anders' life. </p><p>They do that, this team of people — save one another. Though none quite so dramatically as Fenris and Anders. When he is all the way through, his fire filling Anders' eyes, Justice can see some of the space in Fenris that should be memory. All of it hurts. He remembers the first time he saw it, coming to the surface because his first real encounter with slavery was too much to bear. Fenris holds a very stiff posture, all the way through to his heart. He doesn't radiate with passionate fire like Hawke, even though his power is likely more deadly. And he certainly does not feel of trust and goodwill like Merrill, though he’s almost always doing something helpful. He doesn’t have the air of nervousness like Orana, despite coming from the same place of cruelty. And he doesn't feel like any other elves Justice has known, either, though they all seem to burn with an injustice of one kind or another. Anders had wanted to help him defeat his former master almost as much as Justice had — for all his sarcastic bickering, Anders has never been one to put qualifications on who deserves freedom, who deserves <em> justice </em>. It's why Justive chose him. And while Fenris was vocally unappreciative of his help, he's really no less fair, at the root of it all. He used to always prickle with so much fear (masked as anger — hard to remember for Anders, on the outside where words stick, but Justice has more insight and fewer affiliations with cruel words.), and there’s a strange discomfort to him, now that that’s waned.  </p><p>Now, he is simply stiff, rubbing his arm with a slow, squeezing hand from shoulder to elbow, and Justice remembers: </p><p><em> "Shit, Fenris!" </em>Hawke saw it first, and Anders had had to wait until the smoke around him settled before he could fix his eyes on the bright haze of blood and magic in front of them. </p><p>It had taken almost all their mana, his and Hawke's, to break down the Magister's barriers. Then, in a flash and a step, Fenris had been at his throat, flesh glowing and flickering half into fade, translucent, as he made his move to end it. But the scowling, red-eyed demon of a man he reached for had caught his hand, holding fast to Fenris’ arm as it dug through his ribs, and then everything had begun to glow. Magic had spread through Fenris, cruel fire burning along the lines in his skin until his arm seemed to be coming apart at the seams. The Magister's eyes went wide and white, curses on his tongue as he summoned power from his own blood. But Fenris had still driven though, the lyrium seeping into the cracks as he gave an earthshaking shout and tore his fist out again, dripping with mingled blood and sinew and sweat and more lyrium, holding a dull brown heart, dead in his fist. </p><p>Then he'd collapsed, and it took all the rest of Anders' mana, plus four sets of hands to hold the elf down, before Anders could repair him.<em> “If I don’t fix this now, you’ll lose the arm.” </em>he’d growled, and before or since, Fenris has never looked more afraid. Then it had been a flood, Justice and Anders and magic and lyrium pooling like oil over his bloodied limb, reflective and iridescent and swimming with colours that the greatest artists would struggle to name. He’d felt like heat and energy and relief, finally, relief. Justice can still see, in those moments when he is forward facing and filling up Anders' eyes, where the kinks in the chain through Fenris’ arm are, how the lyrium stutters down over reaffixed bone and muscle. It will probably always hurt, just like everything else the Magister did to him. </p><p>“Oy, you,” Isabella is talking to him now, waving him over with a drink in her hand and a teasing smirk on her lips, “forgetting what you owe me, aren’t you?” </p><p>“Hey, Bells,” Anders looks at her reluctantly; Justice looks at her deeply, like he looks at everyone. Even Isabella, self-proclaimed scoundrel, strains almost nothing about his judgment. She’s good, through to the centre of her carefully kept heart. Hurts people who deserve it, and tries her best to only do that. Helps more than she means to, and complains the whole time. Loves. Just loves outward and around her, like Merrill does, but less obvious. She’s forgiven more than a few angry outbursts for less than a bottle of Antivan wine before, so Justice isn’t sure what she wants with Anders. </p><p>“I — my apologies, Isabella.” Anders isn’t either, but he tries it with a smile anyway, because they’re old friends, and she’ll set him straight soon enough. </p><p>“Not that, come here.” Isabella pulls him into a hug and then punches him in the arm, hard enough to make him flinch. </p><p>“All wrapped up in that big beautiful head of yours again, aren’t you?” she remarks, letting him go. Anders nods absently, his thoughts busy with Justice, who is now laughing at him. Isabella is, too. </p><p>"You aren't angry?" Anders finds his way back to the conversation waiting for him, and Justice settles back, keeping his mild amusement to himself. They've both been happier since Anders did that reckless thing for the maps, half driven to it by Justice's valiant energy, half mad for the chance all on his own. </p><p>Isabella is still laughing. "As though you could throw an insult at me that wouldn't stick right back on you." </p><p>Justice can almost picture her as a snot nosed child; her rubber, him glue, and the thought amuses him some more. Anders really can picture Isabella younger, during a time before Justice had even entered the mortal world, and he contents himself with the exploration of Anders' happier memories while he and Isabella continue to make awkward smalltalk, to which he is only half listening. Isabella at the Pearl, <em> Anders </em> at the Pearl, bits of levity in that life on the run. Bits of romance that spark on Anders' innate passion, the passion Justice likes too, troublesome though it may be at times. </p><p>"Do you think… how — Maker this is crass — but how long, do you think…" Isabella is asking about Hawke, looking at her worriedly where she sits quietly nursing a glass of wine and buzzing with an aura that maybe Isabella can't see, like Justice does, but that she can obviously feel. </p><p>"You're asking me for advice?" </p><p>"Well, you are the healer. And...you know her." </p><p>"Not half as well as you, by now. And if you're asking about the kind of healing I <em> think </em>you are —” </p><p>"Oh Maker, no! Even I'm not that crass, and besides, Mads is plenty good at having sex about her problems, as I <em> know </em> you well know. I just… you knew her when everything was freshly ripped away before and it --" </p><p>It had never been really good, even when it was great. Love is too easily given and lost, when one has just been through a great upheaval. Something Justice had to learn from both Anders and Hawke the hard way. </p><p>Anders frowns, and so does Isabella. "Yeah. No advice there. But she'll bounce back, it's what she does." he shakes his head, “maybe try Merrill.” </p><p>"Already did." Isabella shrugs her concern away, though it's all still there in her face. "Never mind. Apparently I'll spill my cares to anyone tonight; too much Antivan wine. Well, you've got some new adventure started for us now, haven't you? Plans in the study after dessert." </p><p>"You're on board?" </p><p>"Of course I am. Someone needs to remember to check the pockets while you two run about cheering for freedom." </p><p>Justice laughs again, even if Anders doesn't. She will check all the pockets, of course, but Justice has never seen Isabella give up a chance to cheer about freedom for anyone. He's certain she isn't about to start now. Anders feels bitter about all his laughing, unappreciative of being at the butt of jokes from within his own mind, but he is also thinking about how good it is to have a plan, an idea that can actually do some good, and that's a good deal more hope than he's felt in a long time, which makes Justice's laughing much easier for both of them.  </p><p>"I've had enough far off looks for one day, so if you're just going to continue that, you can go find a corner with Fenris and have a little glowering contest together," Isabella interrupts his inner rapport, "— actually, you will never guess who has bright floral curtains decorating his windows now,” then she interrupts herself, giggling as she dives into innocuous, friendly gossip. “Merrill made them, he feels too guilty not to use them, but also I think he secretly likes them.” she explains, grinning, “I mean just look at his shirt.” it’s the lighthearted sort of making-fun that Isabella does best, pointing out how the elf dresses, how Varric’s chest hair is looking especially curly lately, how Avaline’s smiling more since Donnic, and what does he think <em> that </em> means about their sex life — do you think he lets her wield the sword? And so on. Fenris is wearing a pale yellow shirt; it doesn’t really suit him, soft colours and loose fabrics and a cut that is far too flowy and <em> playful </em>, but he looks comfortable. Much more so than he ever does in his armour, which is how Anders usually sees him. There’s still some tension held in those arms though, Justice thinks, lyrium heat flickering at him from all the way across the room — always ready for a fight. </p><p>Anders doesn’t laugh at Isabella’s roasts, though she does a tour of the entire room trying to get him to. Everyone’s lives seem to just be going on smoothly without him. Merrill has her kitten and Fenris is going on shopping sprees with Isabella and Avaline is getting married and Sebastian is...doing whatever Sebastian does. Boring Chantry things, probably. Varric won some fancy soap off Isabella in a card game to celebrate some barely relevant holiday that was really just an excuse to get drunk, which is why his chest hair looks so especially curly, and Anders wasn’t there. He wasn’t there when Hawke fought the man who killed her mother, either. Had to hear the gory details from Varric and even then he couldn’t hear all of them, too fired up by Justice over it all to properly listen; the Guard should have been on that, what is Aveline even doing as Guard Captain if serial killers are running around the city without proper investigation? And what sort of wild injustice was it for Hawke to have to find her mother like that? And what is news of a Blood Mage Serial Killer going to do to the already testy Templars? And — and Justice stands by that tirade, every word of it, but it had sent Anders right back into the thick of it: the blood and ink and constant gloom of nothing ever getting any better. Still, somehow, life is moving on without him. </p><p>“Gone into yourself again, I see.” Isabella crosses her arms, “you used to have a sense of humour, I’m sure if you keep looking you’ll find it in there somewhere.” </p><p>Anders sighs. Justice lets up, prodding him in the direction of doing something by being there with his friends, which, like Merrill says, is never nothing. “Sorry,” Anders mutters, pushing Justice even further back as he does, which Justice does not appreciate, since he is at this point only trying to be helpful. But that’s just it. He is always trying to be helpful; it’s all he knows. And a lot of the time that means speaking up and acting out when no one else will, which is a lot of work for anyone, and Anders wants so badly to do that work and Justice loves to help him be the force he knows he can be but then… well, Anders had never had much balance in his life, even before. </p><p>“I haven't been around,” Anders is admitting a feeling to Isabella now, which is a good thing even if he is dragging it out of himself with the utmost reluctance, and still pushing away Justice’s efforts to help.</p><p>“I know. Missed you and the sense of humour.” Isabella quips back, and then, perhaps because of all that Antivan wine again, she sighs too. “We could all stand to do more for each other.” She says seriously. Justice resists Anders’ press on his presence to observe more closely again; Isabella is very rarely serious. “To care for each other, visit, talk…” she continues, “this is all the family any of us really has, right here in this room.” she points out, frown deepening. Hawke was the exception to the rule, back at the start of things. A very small legacy, but something. Angry brother and one noble, unshakable pillar of a mother — all gone. Even the uncle, Gamlen, is barely present these days. She put him up in the estate, but he isn't here now. He and Hawke had hardly been friends, and death rarely does what Isabella is hoping for for a family. The rest of them have been functioning without family forever, except for maybe Merrill, but that’s complicated enough to be sad, too. Justice has always been attracted to people like the ones in this room; like Anders. Lonesome, mistreated, abandoned souls. </p><p>Anders runs a hand through his hair, which is limp and somehow <em> still </em>vaguely damp, and he thinks briefly about the soap and Varric’s curly chest hair, as he glances around the room. Family, he thinks, and Justice approves. Yes, he should try to spend more time with his family. “I think you’re right,” he shrugs, “I’ve missed these dinners,” one more bit of personal feeling admitted to an old friend, and Isabella’s smile eases the guilt of having put so many off. </p><p>“Maybe that's what we learn from this one,” Isabella remarks, too plucky.</p><p>“The real treasure was the lesson about loss and wasted time we learned along the way?” Anders raises an eyebrow, “oh what a happy band of misfits are we.” </p><p>Dinner is served at the table, and Anders takes a seat — Varric on one side, between him and the Guard Captain, which is wise since the closer Justice gets to her the more he wants to force himself through Anders and blame her for all the sadness in Hawke’s home. Which might not be fair, since Hawke doesn’t seem to, but then Hawke has never been as concrete with her judgments, and if Justice doesn’t know what a Guard Captain’s job should be then no one does. On his other side sits Sebastian, which would probably also pose a problem if he wasn’t still leaned in and focused with Fenris, who sits across. The two are discussing Starkhaven; Sebastian still isn’t sure if he means to take the city, but if and when he does he wants to give Fenris a place in his force. He is being rather kind to Fenris actually, pointing out his strength and great value as a teammate and ally. Anders is rolling his eyes, partially because he doesn’t like either of them much, and partially because Justice is in the back of his head eavesdropping on the conversation and approving of it all. </p><p>Then Hawke stands and taps her glass. The fork chimes bright and loud against the crystal, and the clatters and laughter cease while she clears her throat. Hawke almost always makes a lengthy speech at these dinners, usually about herself and her latest courageous exploits. Often, Varric helps. It’s generally funny and braggy and very slurred, but tonight from the looks of her face and the speed at which the bottles of wine have been emptying, it is only going to be one of those things. </p><p>“Mad Maddie!” Varric shouts encouragingly, clapping as Hawke sways. </p><p>“Give us a toast, Mads!” Fenris agrees, smiling and apparently drunk too, which is different. He’s always been very composed at these things, and smiling isn’t exactly what he’s known for. Maybe it was all those flowery words out of Sebastian, Anders thinks — and again, rolls his eyes while Justice simply opts to be happy for him. </p><p>“Alright, alright, listen:” Hawke says, though it's sort of one word, “it’s been a while since I’ve had you all here and I —” she gets misty, still covered in the sticky sadness that’s spilling out of her walls, “well, for once, I really do not want to talk about me.” She shoves away some of the mistiness, and Justice can practically see the mental effort she’s making to keep some light about her. In the centre of the table, candle flames dance and flicker, giving everything a soft, warm glow: bread and stew and wine and table linens, fine china and crystal — every day, Hawke sets it all out every day, because she grew up with nothing and now she can and her mother always really got a kick out of that. “So I’ll make this short and sweet and not about me,” she continues, swallowing over the last word “tonight,” she pauses — for effect or to work her mouth and tongue into better shapes so that the words will actually separate, it isn’t really clear — “tonight is about Merrill.” </p><p>Down near Hawke’s end of the table, Merrill squeaks with surprise, and blushes. </p><p>“This dinner would never have happened without her, and it turns out that a lot of alcohol and food and good friends was just what the doctor ordered,” Hawke expands, and Merrill’s blush deepens, “in fact, none of these dinners would have ever happened without her, and she just — she’s always ready to listen, you know?” Hawke is doing a less articulate job of things than she usually does, which is saying something, and she sways a little again, then tries to give the swaying some purpose, grinning a rather forced grin and turning her attention directly on the bright pink elf beside her. “People say I'm the one that brings us together, but they're wrong,” she waves a hand about. “It's you Merril. You're the fucking glue and when people are mean to you it just makes me wanna — wanna <em> punch </em> ‘em —” she finishes by closing that hand into a fist, while Merrill giggles and Avaline shakes her head and Isabella shouts “hear hear!” Then Fenris has raised his glass and Sebastian clinks his own in with a bit of an unimpressed sigh. Varric joins the toast to say a few more things about how if Hawke won’t say anything about the bangup job she does protecting bandits from their ill-gotten gains, he will, and Merrill is giggling directly into her drink. Anders raises his glass too, taps it gingerly with Fenris’ without meeting his eye, since they can apparently at least agree on Merrill and Hawke and plates of good food.</p><p>He spends the rest of the dinner within himself, not so much arguing with Justice as thinking with him; about the poor excuse for a family he has here and how much care he’s given it, about his plans for searching out every phylactery the Templars have hoarded and how at least some of the people around this table would help him, if he asked, and the rest would help Hawke if she did. About Merrill, and how she was right when she said that her being here was doing something; that his being here is too. Justice is content that there are plans for the hard work, and he is as fascinated by Hawke’s companions as he has ever been, and he really does only want to help Anders be all of the force for good that he can be, and maybe that means more of these dinners at Hawke’s than either of them previously thought. </p><p>After dessert, Hawke, Isabella and Anders gather in the study. Avaline and Sebastian have left, and taken most of the disapproval over his plan with them, so Anders is free to lay out the details while Fenris helps Orana to clear the dishes and Varric works on teaching Merrill how to shuffle cards. Isabella nods soberly, though Anders is pretty sure she’s absorbed nothing he’s said so far. Still, a ten second glance at a map seems to be all she ever really needs. </p><p>“Do I ask Avaline to join us, or Fenris?” Hawke muses, going over the plan one more time, “we can’t possibly do this without a warrior.” </p><p>She’s right; this is a plan that relies much more on brute force than on subterfuge and finesse, which is probably a good thing, considering how well Anders’ last plan that depended on such things went. </p><p>“Fenris.” Anders says quickly — before Justice can even tell him to. Eyes fall on him and he shrugs. “He already knows, he’ll just butt in otherwise. And Avaline’s a guard.” </p><p>Hawke raises an eyebrow, but nods. Then she calls Fenris into the room to finalize things, and he nods curtly and crosses his arms over it all, but doesn’t say a single disapproving word. He is still very rigid, too, but upon closer examination the lyrium in his arm is simply hotter and more misdirected than usual, and even justice finds it itchy. Justice wonders at it. If he finds it itchy from six feet away, how must it feel in Fenris’ arm? </p><p>After all that, it’s just Wicked Grace and more alcohol to take them into the night, and Anders has had about all he can handle, even if he has vowed to make more of an effort. He is tired, which is something Justice never seems to remember to account for, even after all these years, and it is a long, dangerous walk back to his clinic. </p><p>He begins to gather up his things, and makes a point to say some proper goodbyes. Merrill gives him a hug that he doesn’t quite give back, and so does Isabella. Hawke gives him a nod, and another hug might bring them both to tears so Anders simply returns it, but he’s able to offer her a smile now too, one that’s genuine. Varric has a wave and a promise to get his coin back some other time. Fenris, he finds in a hall upstairs, looking wistfully at another spot on the wall that used to be a portrait. </p><p>Justice has always liked Fenris. Very hard, representing what he does, not to appreciate the bravery of an escaped slave. The fact that Fenris and Anders have had very few civil conversations in the years they’ve known one another can’t change that, and if Anders ever bothered to be honest with himself, he’d admit that it can’t shake the admiration from him, either. But he used to feel different. He’s still bright and hot with pent up energy and ever-pulsing lyrium, but he’s much quieter than he used to be. Fear and anger giving way to just that song that Justice has always found strangely calming, even as Anders was jumping down his throat — the arguments Anders has with Fenris almost never have Justice in them. It’s all old prejudices on both their sides; bad things done by bad people colouring whole worlds for each of them, and they both know it and both don’t at turns, and it got old after the first time, since the argument never really changes. Both right, both wrong, both too caught up in being angry to get anywhere new. </p><p>Anders feels different too. Jealous of Fenris is a new sensation, but even if Anders doesn’t recognize it, Justice knows him well enough to see it for what it is. His anger right now is all petty and directed at the soft flowing clothing and the smiling, not the grumpy stance on quests for mage freedom (part of him might actually be angry that the stance wasn’t grumpier, and Justice scolds that part). <em> He’s going to help, </em> Justice reminds him; <em> has already helped </em>. </p><p>Anders grumbles inwardly at that, but he’s never thought in terms of owing and owed, and he isn’t about to now. He allows Justice’s prodding to bring him into something a little closer to grateful, and civil at the very least. Fenris’ arm has been bothering him all night, and he’s been socializing with more enthusiasm than Anders has despite it. So he reaches out, even though he is unwelcome and probably shouldn't. </p><p>"Hey, Fenris? I —" Fenris turns to look at him, and for a moment all either he or Justice can see are stars, struck with the brilliance of bright elvhen eyes, "thanks." He finishes, infuriatingly vague as far as Justice is concerned, and Fenris' brows furrow. </p><p>Anders lands his hand on Fenris' shoulder in an awkward yet friendly pat, and Justice takes a small amount of Anders' will and magic for himself, shooting a bolt of cool energy down the length of it before either of them can stop him. It is like the opposite of a shock; he can sense the magic as it flows along the veins of lyrium, smoothing the flow of it and evening out the heat. Something shudders through each of them, a little fire transferred from Fenris to Anders as it happens, the pulse of magic and the beating of hearts all in harmony with that sad singing that always hums in Fenris’ skin. His arm tenses and there’s the telltale breath of relief through Fenris’ nostrils, a miniscule change as the muscles relax and flex in a quick cascade that ripples over Fenris' smooth skin. </p><p>"Don't touch me, mage." Fenris barks as he pulls his arm away, while Anders' head spins and Justice sits back again, satisfied. </p><p>Anders slumps away in the opposite direction of Fenris, but even as they turn their backs to one another, Justice can feel the tension in the air about the elf softening, a little lighter than he was. </p><p>There’s still heat in Anders' cheeks, more unidentifiable embarrassment than leftover energy from his magic, though he is telling himself that’s all it is. He throws on his coat again with too much rush, and once he is out Hawke’s door and under Kirkwall’s moonless night, he takes a lungful of cold air, and marches quickly away (a little lighter than he was, too.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have so much to say and I will definitely forget some points. But considering that this fic is itself basically just character meta thinly disguised as story, hopefully it all comes across. </p><p>First, happy Pesach and Easter! I really wanted to finish this big dinner party scene before the big dinner party holiday ended, so I'm glad to be able to do that today! Cute little HC I'm droppin' is that Merrill mentioned missing the weekly communal dinners her clan would do one time and Hawke, desperate for any sense of normality she could create immediately went GREAT IDEA and started hosting Friday Night Dinners at her estate. Aint no party like a Shabbos party!</p><p>Now, JUSTICE! What a tough character. I hope this works. Mostly my thing is that I want to avoid characterizing Justice as just like a vessel/metaphor for Anders' mental health issues (lookin at you, actual game), and also to avoid saying that all his drive, impatience, various toxic qualities or obsessions etc. is purely Justice acting out. It's kind of a cool and useful thing to be able to do, with a character as bipolar as Anders, and I'm not actually against exploring mental health concepts as like, characters of their own, but Justice is not Anders' disorder, he's his own character that happens to live inside Anders' already somewhat disordered head. And I wanted to emphasize a few things about that. He has his own opinions on Anders' friends that don't always align with Anders', he has his own motivations and his own relationship with Anders and I refuse to believe he doesn't care about Anders' health and such. As for the timeless omniscience, I'm mostly just going off how Cole is written to figure how a spirit would feel -- very insightful, to the point of getting a little lost in it. </p><p>Now, this chapter was big on relationship drama and me messing around with the timeline to create as much angst as possible (sorry Carver). Full disclosure, I've never romanced Anders or done his rivalmance in game, and I don't think that's quite what I'm describing, but if Bioware wants to support my giving characters unhealthy relationships, I can run with that. So Anders and Hawke I see as being something that happened quickly and passionately for all the wrong reasons, but it was obviously built on a mutual respect and shared values, so they still work as friends. They work much better as friends, actually. </p><p>For the backstory then, if it wasn't clear, we had Anders still not processing the relationships and lack of security he's had in his life, falling head-over-heels for an obnoxiously outspoken and strong and fearless apostate. Because of course he did. And we had Hawke, whose fearlessness is mainly show, especially in that first year in Kirkwall, falling head over heels for a likeminded apostate **healer**, who is very passionate and let's be real probably very affectionate and fun on his good days and very low on the bad ones. It's not all Anders is unstable and Hawke has to deal. Hawke is unstable. Anders is self aware. Hawke is too, but still rightly frustrated by Anders sometimes and frustrating herself, other times. I might revisit this, but I think I've got the gist of it out here now. They didn't really know how to help each other and they both made mistakes and wanted more from one another than was healthy to look for (there's a line of Bethany banter where she says something about Anders reminding her of their father and I'm, UGH. Yeah. This was a complicated relationship, not a "caretaker of a mentally ill partner" relationship. K thnks.) </p><p>A bit more on Fenris here too... I had that arm touch planned for a while :3 </p><p>Thanks for reading and tolerating my rants in the notes!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic idea more or less invaded my brain, and once I started writing it just kept getting longer. For some context, I reckon that this takes place somewhere in Act 2, after the death of Hawke's mother. Hawke is also romancing Isabella, which is incedental (but probably was part of the argument with Anders I alluded to). There will definitely be a Fenris side of this in the near future, and possibly a few other characters will have chats with Merril when I'm done with that. I've given Merril a bit more involvement in her community too, because I think it suits her. So that's that for housekeeping. </p><p>Now, I want to talk a little about why Fenders, why this fic. </p><p>In the game, we see Anders on a pretty clear downward spiral. And it's not all bad, but it's not always written with the most care or, imo, accuracy to how a character like this would act. I wanted to explore that character's thoughts in a more complete way, and even though he is still in the midst of a downward spiral, and still in many ways kind of toxic, I wanted to show that with a bit more nuance and care. I haven't decided exactly how far I'm going to take this, or whether I will set him on a vastly different trajectory, but one thing is for sure: he cares about more than just mages, and he thinks slavery is fucking abhorrent. Fenders has fix-it appeal to me, because I think it's one of the biggest flaws of the story that we can't guide Anders and Fenris into more nuanced and accepting views of each other.<br/>The other thing is Fenris, who on a friendship path anyway gets a nice upward spiral of learning to trust other people and accept help. I'm really looking forward to writing some complex character growth for him, and making these two into the foils for each other they really should have been. And of course, everone in this game just needs so much therapy and I want to give it to them. Thanks for giving this intensive character study of mine a read, I hope it all comes across well in the writing!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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